;-  ill 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA. 

AP 


OIKT  OK* 


Accessions 


JAN  1895       ./*9    . 

Class  No.  <J\) 


'        •  ,      : 

, 


BANCROFT 

LIBRARY 

<• 

THE  LIBRARY 
OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 


/*•  ••> 


** 


SHORT    STORIES 


BY 


AUTHORS 


PORTBAIT  OF  A  CALIFOBNIA   GlKL    .  . . 

Ella  Sterling  Cummins 

QUABTZ v. J.  W.  Gaily 

MEA  CULPA W.  8.  Green 

Liz Mary  Willis  Glascock 

MIRANDA  HIGGINS I 

William  AtweU  Cheney 

THE  MARQUIS  OF  AGUAYO 

H.  B.  McDowell 

A  SENSATION  IN  THE  ORANGE  GB<  VES 

Ben.  C.  Truman 

NATHAN,  THE  JEW Harr  Wagner. 


SAN  FBANCISCO  : 

GOLIfEN    ERA,    29  KEAKNY  STREET, 
I      1885- 


Entered  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1884,  by 

HARR  WAGNER, 
In  the  Office  of  the  Librarian  of  Congress  at  Washington,  D;  C. 


O      p 


.. 


%  '& . 

;ffi f^^^^  -. - ' :;•?;> 

PORTRAIT  OF  A  CALIFORNIA  GIRL. 


A  jagged  horizon  of  frowning  cliffs  against  the  blue  sky, !  Moun- 
tains to  the  east  and  west !  Mountains  to  the  north  and  south,  a 
mammoth  herd  of  mountains  all  crowned  fantastically  !  Through  the 
midst  of  this  native  wilderness  ran  a  narrow  canon,  the  only  outlet  to 
the  great  world  beyond,  and  here  in  this  wild  spot  had  been  chosen  a 
place  for  a  habitation. 

From  the  stage  window,  Judge  Harville  glanced  out  at  the  bevy 
of  children  that  gathered  round ,  and  could  not  help  but  wonder  at 
the  refined  mother  of  the  group,  and  ask  himself  what  fortuitous  for- 
tune had-  cast  so  beautiful  and  delicate  a  woman  so  far  above  the 
level  of  civilization.  And  then  his  eye  had  been  caught  by  a  strange 
young  creature  by  his  side,  who  resembled  her  as  the  fawn  does  the 
deer-mother.  It  looked  like  a  child  that  was  masquerading  as  a  woman, 
dressed  in  matronly  style,  with  trained  skirts  and  ample  crinoline, 
but  showing  in  her  childish  face  and  undeveloped  form  the  marks  of 
extreme  youth,  and  yet  in  the  self-reliant  pose  of  the  head  and  utter 
unconsciousness  of  the  gazing  eyes  bent  upon  her,  was  ver$  different 
from  the  preconceived  idea  of  the  child  who  stands  where  brook  and 
river  meet. 

She  was  dressed  for  traveling,  and  as  she  kissed  them  all  farewell, 
her  trunk  was  being  strapped  on  behind  the.  stage  with  tremendous 
energy. 

' '  Is  she  coming  in  here  ?' '  asked  one  of  the  passengers  with  enthu- 
siasm . 

"No,  she's  booked  outside  with  Dennis,  the  driver,"  was  the  re- 
ply. '-She's  one  of  the  belles  of  Esmeralda.  You  wouldn't  think  it, 
would  you.  She's  only  fourteen,  but  she's  had  several  proposals 
already.  Women  are  mighty  scarce  in  this  part  of  the  country,  you 
know,  and  we  don't  let  'em  waste  much  time." 


• 

<•&       U4>i  - 

;.;•''./;;'.  -<  •    :    '.  \  S£fc  .  '     v-  ,.  ."• 

2  PORTRAIT   OF   A   CALIFORNIA   GIRL. 

"Good  bye,  Lorena,  good  bye  !"  cried  the  chorus  of  brothers  and 
sisters  as  she  mounted  up  the  wheel  and  into  the  high  teat  by  the 
driver,  and  they  were  off,  the  six  hoises  prancing  gaily  down  the 
canon . 

Judge  Harville  had  listened  amused  to  this  little  colloquy  and  at 
the  Half-way  House  where  they  stopped  for  dinner  he  took  a  clo?er 
look  at  the  girl. 

She  wore  a  string  of  pearl  beads  around  her  hair,  a  sailor  collar 
turned  down  in  the  neck  with  a  picturesque  knot  at  the  throat,  very 
full  gathered  skirts  over  a  large  crinoline,  and  a  saucy  little  brown 
felt  hat  like  a  boy's.  Certainly  she  was  all  out  in  her  clothes. 

In  the  city,  he  knew  the  ladies  affected  very  high  chokers,  and 
their  skirts  were  rather  slimpsey,  crinoline  having  been  dethroned 
for  some  time. 

Still  there  was  a  certain  sweetness  and  dignity  in  the  fresh  young 
face  that  was  very  attractive.  He  saw  her  eyes  glisten  as  he  took 
up  his  magnificent  fur-liked  coat,  and  knew  she  bad  never  seen  any- 
thing like  it  before. 

He  handed  her  into  the  coach,  for  it  was  now  growing  cold,  and 
found  her  the  easiest  place,  and  watched  her  fall  into  a  baby-like 
slumber.  The  night  was  bitter  in  its  frostiness,  and  the  shawl  around 
her  seemed  scarcely  heavy  enough.  Very  lightly  he  drew  off  his 
otter-lined  garment,  and  put  it  around  her,  then  wrapping  himself  in 
a  blanket,  he  too  had  gone  to  sleep,  maintaining  meantime,  however, 
a  strong  grip  on  the  straps — those  kindly-provided  contrivances  to 
keep  passengers  from  mounting  roofward  at  odd  moments.  In  tfce 
grey  light  of  the  morning  he  saw  her  looking  at  him  with  an  amused 
yet  grateful  pair  of  eyes,  and  patting  the  soft  lining  with  evident  en- 
joyment. 

After  breakfast  they  fell  into  a  little  chat,  and  he  remarked  the 
change  in  the  landscape  around  them,  for  it  was  much  more  level 
and  open  on  the  road  to  Carson. 

"It  is  very  different,"  she  replied;  "yesterday  it  was  like  home 
all  the  way,  nearly,  for  they  were  my  own  mountains,  my  very  own, 
but  I  don't  know  my  way  here,  at  all.  Which  way  are  my  moun- 
tains?" and  her  (yes  betokened  the  liveliest  interest. 

They  were  pointed  out  in  the  dim  distance  directly  upon  one  side, 
for  they  had  come  in  a  sort  of  semi-circle.  Air,  light  and  shade 


V- -  PORTBAIT   OF   A    CALIFORNIA   GIRL.  3 

commingling  to  invest  them  with  a  royal  magnificence  of  color  from 
the  delicate  pearl  tints  to  rose  and  purple,  and  behind  them  the  cloud? 
lay  piled  like  another  succession  of  heavenly  peaks  till  the  eye  could 
scarcely  tell  where  earth  left  off  and  the  portals  of  the  sky  began. 

"Are  those  my  mountains?"  she  said  in  surprise  "Why,  they 
are  more  beautifully  purple  than  any  of  them  and  I  have  always  been 
envying  the  far  away  mountains  for  being  so  lovely  and  hazy,  and 
there  all  the  time  my  own  mountains  were  just  as  purple  as  any  of 
them.  Doesn't  that  "seem  funny?" 

He  was  much  amused  by  her  naive  remarks,  for  she  was  not 
afraid  to  talk-  upon  any  theme  from  politics  to  poetry,  having  an  uu- 
usual  fund  of  information  upon  these  subjects,  and  showing  that  she 
had  grown  up  among  people  much  older  than  herself.  And  yet  the 
childish  idea  would  make  its  appeaiance  every  now  and  then,  giving 
a  most  unique  turn  to  the  conversation. 

The  stage  jolted  violently  over  the  rough  road,  and  they  fell  into 
silence  again.  She  rosy  cheeks  of  the  girl  seemed  to  whiten  out  as 
a  faintly  perceptible  odor  began  to  steal  on  the  air.  It  was  an  ill- 
defined}  suspicious  odor,  that  seemed  to  creep  upon  the  senses  iusid- 
uously,  and  yet  not  give  the  slightest  clue  to  its  origin.  Being  a 
man,  perhaps  it  made  less  impression  upon  Judge  Harville,  but  he 
saw  the  girl  evince  signs  of  the  greatest  discomfort. 

When  they  reached  the  place  for  changing  horses,  and  the  men 
got  our,  and  stretched  their  limbs,  he  saw  the  girl  bend  forward  eag- 
erly, and  with  her  teeth,  bite  the  string  that  fasteaed  a  great  demijohn 
of  whieky  to  the  side  of  the  stage,  put  it  under  her  shawl,  and,  at  an 
unobserved  moment,  pitch  it  out  the  window. ' 

He  smiled  to  himself,  at  her  resolution,  and  wondered  how  she 
would  make  it  straight  with  the  owner,  getting  back  into  the  stage 
with  renewed  interest  in  the  "child-woman,'"  as  he  mentally  dubbed  her. 
•>She  eat  smiling,  wickedly  happy,  now;  the  color  had  come  back  to 
her  round  cheek,  and  she  had  a  sparkle  in  her  eye  that  told  of  her 
triumph.  Presently  the  owner  of  the  odorous  treasure  began  to  look 
for  his  demijohn.  In  a  few  moments  he  had  accused  the  man  next 
to  him.  which  was  resented  on  the  instant.  Words  followed  and  a 
row  Deemed  imminent,  when,  all  at  once,  the  girl  laughed.  They 
looked  at  her  with  indignation. 

"I  took  it,"  she  said,  a  little  shame-facedly. 


4  POBTRAIT   OF   A   CALIFORNIA    GIRL. 

"You?"  said  the  man,  astonished,  yet  doubtful. 

"Yes,  the  horrid  thiog  was  making  me  sick  with  its  awful  breath, 
and  so  I  pitched  it  out;''  her  whole  manner  breathed  of  defiance 
Then  realizing  faintly  the  difficulty  she  had  gotten  into,  she  said, 
apologetically,  "Besides  it  was  good  of  me  to  keep  you  from  drink- 
ing it.  'Tisn't  good  for  you,  you  know  it  isn't.  Whisky  makes 
people  ugly,  and  if  you  hadn't  been  drinking  it  all  the  morning,  you 
would  laugh  and  call  it  a  joke.  Now,  wouldn't  he?"  She  appealed 
to  the  other  passengers. 

"Of  course  he  would!"  they  laughed  back. 

*  'Better  give  in  gracefully,  old  fel,"  said  one,  "you're  beat  this 
time." 

"Got  to  stand  the  drinks  next  place,"  said  another. 

"Oh,  bah!"  said  Lorena,  her  eyes  flashing,  "we  don't  want  any 
more  drinking.  That's  what  I  pitched  that  old  thing  out  for.  Can't 
you  brighten  up  and  be  nice  for  the  rest  of  the  trip?  Tell  me,  haven't 
you  some  nice  little  children?"  she  asked  interestedly  of  the  owner  of 
the  lost  treasure.  " 

'Yes,"  said  the  man,  rather  sullenly. 

'How  many?"     her  voice  was  eager. 

'Three,"  was  the  reply,  less  sullen. 

'Oh!  have  you?  Boys  or  girls?" 

'Two  boys  and  a  girl,"  replied  the  man,  looking  at  her  curiously.   • 

'We  have  three  of  each  at  our  house,  and  I  have  just  the  sweetest 
baby  sister  in  the  world,"  said  the  girl,  joyously. 

.Judge  Harville  looked  upon  her  with  a  new  interest;  she  was  cer- 
tainly an  odd  little  child-woman,  with  so  much  maternal  aftection  in 
her  nature.  In  a  few  moments  she  had  found  out  the  names  of  all 
the  children  belonging  to  the  fathers  there,  and  made  a  remark  on 
each;  then  turning  to  him,  she  asked,  artlessly,  "What  are  your 
children's  names?" 

Judge  Harville  was  taken  by  surprise.  He  was  not  over  thirty 
years  of  age,  was  brown  haired  and  brown  bearded,  and  felt  himself  a 
very  young  man  for  the  honors  he  had  received.  That  be  should 
impress  any  one  as  the  father  of  a  family  struck  him  incongruously. 

"I'm  alinoft  afraid  to  tell  you" — he  hesitated,  yet  in  spite  of  him 
self,  he  smiled. 


PORTRAIT   OF   A   CALIFORNIA   GIRL.  5 

"Why?"  she  asked,  emphatically. 

"Because  I  hayen't  any."  Everybody  laughed,  even  Lorena 
herself,  and  good  nature  was  immediately  restored. 

The  rest  of  the  stage  ride  was  pleasant  enough,  and  Tudge  Harville 
found  himself  more  than  once  on  the  point  of  asking  the  bright  little 
Lorena  where  she  was  going  to  stop  in  San  Francisco,  which  she  had 
inadvertently  referred  to  as  her  destination.  But  there  was  a  certain 
dignity  underneath  all  that  childish  presumption  and  chattiiiess  that 
made  him  hesitate.  And  when  they  arrived  at  Carson,  he  arrayed 
himself  in  his  luxurious  coat,  and  gathered  together  all  his  belongings 
•and  bade  her  good-bye,  saying  simply,  "Farewell,  Miss  Lorena.  I 
hope  we  shall  meet  again." 

And  she  looked  him  in  the  eyes  like  a  child ,  and  said  cheerfully, 
"I  hope  so,  too." 

"You  won't  forget  me,  will  you  ?"  said  he  with  a  little  touch  of 
vanity.  She  seemed  too  unimpressed  by  the  notice  he  had  taken 
of  her. 

"I'm  sure  I'll  never  forget  your  beautiful  fur-lined  coat,"  she 
said,  mischievously,  and  he  went  off  amid  a  shout  of  laughter  from 
the  other  passengers. 

Four  weeks  passed  by.  He  had  almost  forgotten  the  little  girl 
in  the  stage,  when  one  day,  near  Christmas  time,  with  the  rain  pour- 
ing in  torrents,  he  suddenly  met  her  face  to  face  on  Kearny  street  in 
San  Francisco.  He  stopped  and  looked  at  her  with  a  very  pleased 
expression. 

She  was  clad  in  city  fashion,  short  trim  skirts,  ermine-bordered 
velvet  jacket,  and  Tyrolean  hat  to  match,  with  a  scarlet  wing  setting 
it  off  jauntily,  really  a  very  charming  picture  of  youth  and  freshness. 
He  held  out  bis  hand.  She  hesitated. 

"Why  Miss  Lorena,  you  haven't  forgotten  me  surely  ?" 

"No,"  she  said,  rather  unwillingly,  "but  you  see  I've  never 
been  introduced  to  you." 

"Well,  I'll  be  blanked,"  said  he  to  himself. 

"Well?  what  difference  does  that  make.  We're  acquainted  all 
the  same." 

"I  know,"  said  the  girl,  "but  at  home — up  in  the  mountains — 
we  don't  think  it  nice  to  continue  an  acquaintance  without  an  intro* 


6  PORTRAIT    OF   A,  CALIFORNIA    GIRL. 

V      - 

duction.  If  I'm  worth  being  acquainted  with,  I'm  worth  being  intro- 
duced to.  Besides,  I  don't  know  who  in  the  world  you  are,  yon 
know."  And  she  laughed. 

Finished  man  of  the  world  as  he  was,  Judge  Harville  was  speech- 
less.    He  looked  down  in  wonder  on  this  curious  little  woman  with 
the  artlessnses  of  a  child,  this  child  with  the  worldly  wisdom  of  a 
woman  • 
*•    "With  whom  are  you  staying  ?"  he  asked  in  a  low  voice. 

"With  my  uncle,  W.  B.  Lawrence  of  the  firm  of  Lawrence  and 
Chester,"  she  replied  with  dignity.  "Good  morning,"  and  she  was 
•a  her  way. 

The  spirit  displayed  by  this  comical  little  mountain  belle,  aroused 
his  deepest  respect.  "If  she  is  worth  being  acquainted  with,  she 
is  worth  getting  an  introduction  to,"  he  repeated.  "The  little  girl 
is  right,  and  I'll  take  the  trouble  to  get  a  first-class  introduction  that 
will  be  without  a  flaw." 

And  then  he  fell  to  laughing  at  the  absurdity  of  the  situation,  he 
a  man  of  high  position  and  eagerly  sought  after  by  the  finest  circles 
to  grace  their  receptions,  going  to  the  trouble  of  getting  an  intro- 
duction to  a  comical  little  girl  from  the  mountains  in  order  that  he 
might  set  himself  straight,  and  prove  that  he  was  not  a  gambler  or 
other  suspicious  character.  "I  dont  know  who  in  the  world  you 
are,  you  know."  It  would  make  a  funny  story  to  tell  some  time, 
he  thought. 

Nevertheless  his  pique  was  aroused  and  he  sought  the  house  of  a 
mutual  friend,  who  during  the  call,  casually,  mentioned  that  the  Law- 
rence family  were  to  dine  with  them  on  Christmas  day.  "But  I 
suppose  it  is  of  no  use  to  invite  you,  Judge  Harville,  you  are  always 
engaged  months  beforehand,"  paid  the  lady  with  a  sigh,  thinking  of 
her  own  marriageable  daughter. 

"Well,"  said  he,  stroking  his  handsome  mustache,  "I  will  tell  you 
what  I  will  do.  I  will  come  late." 

He  resolved  to  dumbfound  the  nonchalant  little  Lorena,  and  teach 
her  a  lesson.  He  would  rather  enjoy  a  harmless  little  revenge  on 
such  a  spirited  young  creature.  In  spite  of  his  pride  and  high  posi- 
tion, underneath  all  there  was  to  be  found  a  petty  vanity  in  the 
breast  of  the  otherwise  admirable  Judge  Harville. 

The  dinner  was  over,  and  the  several  little  families  were  gathered 


PORTRAIT   OF   A    CALIFORNIA   GIRL.  7 

in  congenial  little  knots,  some  singing  at  the  piano,  some  looking  at 
the  new  gifts;  but  in  the  bay  window,  solitary  and  alone,  sat  little 
Lorena.  She  had  discovered  already,  in  her  short  experience  of  city 
life,  that  she  was  no  longer  a  young  lady,  but  only  a  little  girl,  and 
was  trying  to  adapt  herself  to  the  new  position  of  being  seen  but  not 
be-ud. 

The  door  suddenly  opened  and  the  hostess  came  in  smiling,  leading^ 
Judge  Harville  as  if  he  were  a  prize  ox  that  had  received  the  first 
premium  at  a  county  fair.  She  introduced  him  to  the  few  who  did 
not  already  know  him,  personally,  while  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Lawrence 
beamed  upon  him,  renewing  the  slight  acquaintance  that  already  ex- 
isted between  taem,  and  the  others  gathered  around  to  show  him 
deference  and  respect* 

All  listened  to  his  words  of  bright  address,  and  responded  with 
animation — all  but  little  Lorena,  who  shrank  back  behind  the  cur- 
tains and  wondered  at  this  remarkable  coincidence. 

Judge  Harville  saw  her  sitting  there  all  solitary  and  alone,  aid 
after  he  thought  he  bad  punished  her  sufficiently,  he  said,  "By  the 
way,  Lawrence,  I  believe  I  came  down  in  the  same  stage  with  your 
niece — a  very  bright  little  girl — is  she  here  ?  I  should  like  to  be 
introduced." 

And  Mr.  Lawrence  had  gone  to  the  window  and  had  said, 
"Lorena,  Judge  Harville  wishes  to  be  introduced  to  you." 

"Does  he  ?"  she  said,  quietly. 

"Yes.  It  seems  he  came  down  in  r,he  same  stage  with  you  from 
the  mountains,"  and  he  waited  for  her  to  come  out  from  behind  the 
curtains. 

"Well,  why  doesn't  he  come  and  be  introduced  then  ?"  and  she 
turned  to  look  out  the  window  again. 

Uncle  Lawrence  was  somewhat  startled,  and  then  he  smiled  to 
himself,  remembering  the  trains  to  her  dresses  only  a  few  weeks 
before,  which  had  to  be  cut  off  in  order  to  make  her  presentable. 
"She  wasn't  so  much  of  a  child  as  they  had  imagined." 

In  a  moment  the  curtain  was  separated  more  widely  than  usual, 
and  Judge  Harville  stood  there,  with  a  quizzical  smile  in  his  hand- 
some eyes,  repeating  gravely,  "Miss  Lawrence,"  after  the  ceremony 
of  introduction. 

But   the   little   girl,  in  her  pretty  short  suit,  with,    however,  the 


PORTRAIT   OF   A   CALIFORNIA   GIRL. 

pearl  bead  fillet  still  around  her  head,  did  not  seem  dumbfounded  in 
the  least.  She  inclined  her  head  with  dignity,  and  then  there  came 
a  bright  sparkle  of  merriment  into  her  eyes. 

"You  are  lately  from  the  mountains,  I  believe,  Miss  Law- 
tence."v 

"Yes,"  returned  she,  'Hike  yourself." 

"Did  you  have  a  pleasant  trip  down?" 

"Delightful,"  returned  'Lorena,  "especially  when  I  pitched 
out  that  old  demijohn  !  Didn't  you?" 

"Are  there  any  more  formalities  to  be  got  through  with  ?"  he 
asked,  "if  so,  please  mention  them,  and  I'll  try  to  secure  them  all." 

"I  can't  help  it,"  said  Lorena,  answering  implied  sarcasm  of  his 
words.  "1  have  been  taught  that  it  is  the  only  proper  way." 

"Do  you  know  who  I  am  yet?"  His  eyes  looked  mischiev- 
ous. 

"No,"  said  she  frankly,  "I  do  not." 

4 'Yet  you  talk  to  me." 

"Ah  !"  paid  the  girl,  "but  my  uncle  has  assumed  the  responsi- 
bility, and  I  trust  him." 

Judge  Harville  stroked  his  moustache  a  moment  reflectively. 
There  wasn't  much  satisfaction  for  his  vanity  yet.  "This  is  a  great 
contrast  to  the  country  we  left  behind  us  four  weeks  ago,  isn't  it," 
pointing  as  he  spoke,  to  the  garden  in  front,  which  revealed  great, 
white  calla  lilies,  bright-red  geraniums,  and  graceful,  drooping  fn- 
cbgia  blossoms  of  purple  and  red.  "I  suppose  you  would  be  very  will- 
ing to  make  the  change." 

"I  ?"  said  Lorena,  with  a  flash  of  her  eyes,  "no,  indeed!  The 
city  stifles  me;  I  love  my  own  wild  mountains  best." 

He  looked  down  at  this  small  young  person  with  a  half  smile  on 
his  face — "Ah,  but  if  those  brothers  and  sisters  of  yours  lived  here, 
it  would  be  different,  and  you  would  soon  forget  all  about  the  dreary 
desolation  up  there. " 

"No,  I  shouldn't,"  she  persisted;  "my  dear  old  Mount  Chalcedony 
is  worth  a  dozen  of  these  hills  here.  And  besides,  I  have  all  the 
wild  flowers  to  myself,  and  name  them  whatever  I  please.  And  then, 
too,  we  meet  some  of  the  raost  talented  men  in  the  country,  up  there. 
Why,  I  know  Governor  Nye,  and  J.  Ross  Browne,  the  traveler — 
when  he  was  writing  up  Bodie  and  Mono  Lake,  for  Harper's  he  vis- 


PORTRAIT   OF   A   CALIFORNIA   GIRL.  9 

ted  our  house — and  there's  Mr.  Gough,  the  nephew  of  the  celebrated 
lecturer,  who  is  almost  as  eloquent  as  his  uncle;  and  there's  Mr. 
Clageret,  and  Mr.  Kendall  and  several  other  Congressmen,  and  O, 
judges  !  why,  I  know  ever  so  many  judgres  !  There's  Judge  Boring, 
who  often  lectures  for  us;  and  Judge  Sewell.  who  is  considered 
really  very  fine;  and  Judge  Chase — a  real  brilliant  judge,  who  used 
to  be  a  student  of  Longfellow's,  himself,  and  I  guess  that's  more  than 
you  can  say,  isn't  it?" 

Judge  Harville's  vanity  was  wounded  in  more  ways  than  one. 
He  had  no  desire  to  be  considered  in  competition  with  "those  old 
fogies,"  as  he  mentally  dubbed  them. 

1  'You  must  think  me  a  regular  old  grandfather/'  he  said,  pass- 
ing over  this  extensive  list  of  notables,  his  pride  hurt  more  than  he, 
would  have  confessed  at  her  childish  refusal  to  consider  him  of  any 
particular  value,  and  also  at  the  implied  sarcasm  which  intimated 
that  lie  evidently  felt  he  was  condescending  to  talk  with  her. 

"Oh!  it's  nice  to  be  old,"  said  she,  reassuringly,  "that's  what 
makes  you  so  pleasant  and  agreeable,"  and  then  with  a  sigh  of  self- 
importance,  C'I  don't  like  young  men." 

Judge  Harville  took  a  long  breath.  He  bad  thought  to  subdue 
little  Lorena,  but,  instead,  he  was  himself  subdued. 

When  he  had  recovered  bis  breath,  he  looked  at  her  curiously, 
"I'd  like  to  come  across  you  about  five  years  from  now.  I'd  like  to 
see  what  sort  of  a  woman  you  would  make." 

He  was  about  to  ask  some  questions  about  her  mother,  when 
voices  from  behind  appealed  to  him  to  settle  some  vexed  question  of 
trivial  impoitance,  and  he  was  drawn  away,  the  little  girl  with  her 
pearl  bead  fillet  looking:  out  upon  them  from  behind  the  curtains  with 
an  ill-concealed  smile  of  amusement  at  the  way  the  young  ladies  hung 
upon  his  words,  and  looked  up  into  his  eyes.  It  made  him  feel  ridic- 
ulous rather  than  triumphant,  bis  vanitv  had  received  a  blow. 

The  rain  was  falling  in  torrents  when  the  gathering  broke  up, 
and  be  could  only  say  a  conventional  good  bye  to  to  the  well-equi- 
poised, little  Lorena,  who  gave  him  a  bright  little  nod  in  reply. 

The  next  day  he  sent  her  an  exquisite  bouquet  and  a  magnifi- 
cent box  of  confectionery,  mingling  the  gifts  suitable  to  a  child  and  a 
young  lady,  but  when  he  called  a  week  or  so  later,  little  Lorena  had 
tiown  back  to  her  beloved  mountains,  and  so  passed  out  of  his  life 


10  POKTBAIT    OF    A    CALIFORNIA    GIRL. 

and  thoughts,  leaving  only  a  dim  little  memory  of  a  strange  child  who 
played  at  being  a  young  lady. 

A  number  of  experiences  fell  to  Judge  Harville's  share  in  the 
years  which  followed,  but  fortune  and  fame  continued  to  smile  upon 
him,  and  the  young  ladies  and  their  mammas.  Still  his  heart  re- 
mained his  owr,  that  touch  of  vanity  made  him  well  satisfied  to  re- 
main as  he  was — the  honored  and  welcome  guest  of  a  large  circle  of 
refined  acquaintancep. 

***** 

Eight  years  had  passed.  He  was  still  handsome  with  only  a 
few  silver  hairs  clustering  in  his  brown  locks.  An  intricate  question 
of  law  had  taken  him  up  through  the  wild  Sonora  route  into  Mono 
county. 

Oil  setting  out  in  the  morning,  some  one  had  said,  "Jedge, 
I'm  'fraid  there's  goin*  to  be  be  a  snow  storm.  Ye'd  better  stay 
over  till  tomorrer." 

He  only  laughed  at  the  would-be  weather-prophet,  and  thought 
no  more  about  it,  urging  his  horse  along  at  a  pleasant  canter  till  he 
came  into  the  rough  mountain  road,  and  gave  himself  up  to  the  re- 
flections thit  naturally  co,me  to  a  solitary  horseman  who  knows  he  is 
likely  to  travel  for  twenty  or  thirty  miles  without  meeting  a  human 
being. 

The  road  wound  around  the  hills,  and  then  took  a  line  through  the 
only  natural  egress  or  ingress — a  long,c!ark  canyon, two  gloomy  walls  of 
solid  rock,  that  once  fitted  evenly  together  in  a  solid  mass,  but  in 
eome  great  convulsion  of  nature,  had  separated,  leaving  this  narrow 
space  between — barely  room  enough  for  two  teams  to  pass  with  a 
little  stream  of  water  running  alongside. 

Stones  of  waterspouts,  very  frequent  in  this  locality, 
came  to  his  mind,  and  he  wondered  if  one  should  strike  this  canon, 
whether  the  unfortunate  caught  between  these  walls  could  possibly 
escape  drowning. 

After  a  while,  the  wails  lowered  gradually,  and  he  saw  a  wild 
horizon  of  jagged  fantastic  angles  encircling  him  round.  On  the  in- 
staut  a  picture  came  back  to  his  mind  of  a  house  situated  in  the  fore- 
ground of  a  wild  mountain,  and  a  group  of  children,  and  then  a  suc- 
cession of  pictures  with  a  bright  little  girl  figuring  arching  in  the 
center. 


PORTRAIT   OF    A   CALIFORNIA.   GIRL.  11 

"  It  must  be  the  peculiar  horizon  that  brings  back  such  a  faint 
little  memory  as  that  of  Lorena,"  said  he,  musingly.  "  It  was  no 
wonder  she  didn't  grow  up  like  other  children,  with  such  a  horizon 
as  that  around  her.  What's  that  ?  Snowflakes  falling?  The  old 
man  was  a  prophet,  after  all.  1  wonder  if  I  can't  make  the  quartz 
mill  before  it  gets  too  heavy."  And  spurring  up  his  horse,  he  hast- 
ened along.  The  weather  had  changed,  the  bracing  air  had  givtn 
way  to  that  strange,  heavy  atmosphere  that  precedes  the  snow- 
storm, to  imperceptibly  that  he  had  not  noticed  it. 

On  leaving  this  uncanny  place,  the  road  verged  about  several 
small  slopes,  but  the  snow  increased  so  .  suddenly  and  eo  violently, 
with  a  sudden  gust  of  wind  blowing  down  the  canyon,  tbat  he  be- 
came confused.  Once  he  thought  he  had  struck  the  trail  because  of 
the  fresh  horses'  tracks  before  him  io  the  snow,  but  he  soon  found 
that,  in  his  confusion,  he  had  been  merely  following  in  a  circle  upon 
his  own  trail. 

To  add  to  his  distress,  his  horse  stepped  into  a  sudden  gully 
aud  fell  beneath  him  with  a  broken  leg.  Darkness  now  seemed  to 
encompass  the  earth,  and  Judge  Harville  stood  gazing  into  space  ut- 
terly bewildered. 

The  violent  efforts  of  his  horse  in  attempting  to  rise  called  him 
back  to  himself,  and  after  a  moment's  hesitancy,  he  drew  out  his  re- 
volver and  put  the  beast  out  of  his  misery,  performing  this  ac'ion 
of  cruel  kindness  promptly  and  effectively. 

He  felt  sure  that  the  quanz-mill  way  not  far  away,  and  that  he 
could  make  it  within  an  hour.  He  lighted  a  match,  and  looked  at 
his  watch.  It  was  six.  He  felt  the  need  of  food  and  shelter,  and 
resolved  to  press  forward. 

The  night  was  coming  on  fast,  and  it  was  bitter  cold.  He  could 
not  think  of  staying  in  this  desolate  ppot  when  a  place  of  refuge  was 
eo  near. 

But  he  soon  found  himself  at  the  mercy  of  the  pitiless  elements. 
The  snow  still  fell  n:adly,  the  wind  was  beginning  to  throw  up  little 
drifts.  Still  he  struggled  on.  Once  he  plunged  into  the  creek 
through  the  shallow  ice,  and  although  wet  through,  aud  his  clothes 
immediately  stiffened,  he  exclaimed,  "  Thank  God  !  "  for  it  showed 
that  the  road  was  not  far  away.  Bit  by  bit,  step  by  step,  he  makes 


•  ,  .  •  • 
.  -% 


12  PORT  BAIT   OF  A   CALIFORNIA    GIRL. 

his  wijy.     In  three   hours  hp    has   made   a   mile    directly   forward, 
though  five  or  eix  has  been  lost  in  re  trace  mer^t. 

He  is  no  longer  the  elegant  and  dignified  Judge  Harville.  He  is 
only  a  man  righting  for  life — a  pitable  object  of  humanity.  His 
clothes  are  torn  by  contact  with  the  rocks,  or  stiffened  with  frozen 
water,  his  hands  are  bleeding,  his  feet  badly  frozen.  Shall  he  give 
up  and  lie  down  to  sweet,  coaxing  sleep — sleep  that  knows  no  wak- 
ing, or  shall  he  struggle  on  ? 

A  sound  breaking  on  the  freezing  air  attracts  his  wandering  senses. 

"Help  !"  he  cries. 

The  sound  comes  again,  repeated  thrice.  If  he  was  desperate  be- 
fore, now  he  was  like  one  transfixed. 

It  was  the  bark  of  a  coyote— a  sharp,  insolent  bark.  What  an 
answer  to  a  freezing  man's  call  for  help  ! 

"  What  !  lie  down  to  die,  and  be  devoured  by  those  cowardly 
brutes  ? "  And  in  answer  he  plunged  along  again  with  renewed 
efforts,  nerved  with  strength  born  of  desperation.  The  barks  in- 
creased around  him;  there  was  a  pair  of  them;  he  could  see  their 
dark  shadows  on  the  snow,  waiting  at  a  respectful  distance.  His 
hands  were  so  cold  and  numb  that  he  could  not  get  his  revolver  out, 
and  even  then  the  water  had  frozen  it  stiff.  "  Great  Heaven  !  "  he 
cried,  u  was  I  born  for  this  ?  " 

His  ears  now  told  him  the  voices  were  three,  he  wasted  no  time 
looking  for  the  shadowy  forms  on  the  soow.  "  1  will  keep  them  out 
of  their  feast  as  long  as  I  can,"  he  thought,  his  natural  stubbornness 
coming  to  his  aid.  And  he  did,  but  his  powers  were  nearly  exhaust- 
ed, his  endurance  overtried.  Gradually  the  stiffness  was  creeping 
on  him,  he  felt  no  more  arms  or  legn,  he  was  only  a  human  clump 
straggling  onward.  Still  the  snow  fell.  "  Heh  !  heh  !  heh  !" 
barbed  the  cowardly  choius.  Each  moment  seemed  a  year  as  they 
gained  upon  him.  One  crept  close  to  him;  in  an  agony  of  despair  he 
made  one  great  effort  and  struck  at  it,  the  cowardly  thing  slunk  back. 
It  feared  even  the  semblance  of  a  nun  as  long  as  there  was  a  spark 
of  life  in  it. 

Suddenly  upon  his  ear  almost  dulled  in  its  sense  of  hearing,  came 
another  sound,  he  roused  himself  to  listen.  Could  he  be  losing  his 
mind  already, or  was  it  a  mocking  human  voice  imitating  the  coyotes? 


PORTRAIT   OF   A   CALIFORNIA   GIRL.  13 

"Heb,  heh,  heh  !"  called  the  chorus  around  feim.  "Heh,  heb,  heb." 
called  out  a  clear  mocking  voice  from  a  distance. 

"  God  !"  said  the  man,  and  with  soul  swelling  within  him,  forget- 
ting his  poor  cumbersome,  solid  body  he  strove  once  more,  with  hope 
'  inspiring  him.  That  mocking  human  voice  was  the  sweetest  sound 
he  bad  ever  heard.  But  his  feet  failed  him,  they  would  no  longer 
do  their  master's  bidding.  Accepting  this  new  distress,  he  fell  upon 
hands  and  knees  and  crept  painfully  along  in  the  direction  of  rhe 
voice,  which  seemed  to  take  delight  iu  mocking  the  voices  of  the 
night.  "  If  it  should  cease!"  thought  the  man  in  despair. 

One  more  little  turn  of  a  bend,  and  there  he  saw,  very  near,  a 
light;  with  one  loud  cry  born  of  agony  and  despair,  he  cried,  "Help, 
help  !"  and  at  that  moment  felt  the  breath  of  the  coyotes  upon  his 
eheek. 

He  struggled  to  show  there  was  still  life  in  him,  and  in  the  breath- 
ing spell  thus  obtained,  the  door  flung  wide  open  and  the  figure  of  a 
woman  rushed  out,  a  lamp  in  her  band. 

"  Where!  where  are  you?"  she  cried.  "Heh,  heh/' cried  the 
chorus.  '"Here,  here,"  cried  the  man  with  his  last  strength.  "Mer- 
ciful Heavens  !"  with  this  ejaculation,  not  pausing  a  moment  she  ran 
directly  towards  them,  the  coyotes  shrinking  back  out  of  sight  at  the 
appearance  of  so  much  life  and  vitality.  She  found  a  clump  of 
frozen  humanity  in  the  snow,  speechless  but  with  grateful  eyes  that 
looked  up  in  her  face  and  told  of  life. 

Hurrying  to  the  house,  she  brought  out  a  flask  of  liquor,  and  by 
the  light  of  her  lamp  made  him  drink.  "There  is  no  time  to  waste,'* 
she  said  in  a  quick  way,  "I  shall  have  to  depend  on  you  to  help  roe. 
My  husband  is  at  the  mill,  I  can't  wait  to  go  for  him."  Putting  a 
rope  around  bis  waist,  she  gave  him  instructions  what  to  do.  "  Now 
wben  I  pull,  lift  a  little  of  your  weight."  Foot  by  foot  they  struggled 
along  the  fire  obtained  from  the  wnisky  as  well  as  the  light  so  near 
him,  and  the  encouraging  voice,  gave  him  new  energy.  Who  can 
tel|  where  the  strength  comes  from  that  enables  a  woman  to  grapple 
with  burdens  beyond  her  powers  ?  No  one  could  ever  tell  how  she 
got  the  helpless  man  into  the  cosy  domicile  where  warmth  and  com- 
fort awaited  him.  There  was  not  much  to  remind  one  of  the  elegant 
scrupulously  attired  Judge  Harville,  in  the  poor  piece  of  humanity 


14  PORTRAIT   OF  A   CALIFORNIA   GIRL. 

before  her  eyes.     Cold  water  was  used  to  take  the  first  agony,  out  of 
the  frozen  limbs,  and  then  warm  drinks  to  comfort  the  inner  man. 

Then  with  a  sigh  of  relief  she  said,  "I  guess  you  will  do  till  morn- 
ing, and  then  we'll  have  the  doctor." 

Judge  Harville's  eyes  had  been  resting  upon  her  questioningly 
through  all  this  tedious  process. 

"  It  seems  tome  that  I've  seen  you  somewhere  before;"  he  said 
slowiy.  "Very  likely,"  was  the  response;  "Fve  traveled  all  over 
California  and  Nevada  since  I  was  a  child."  "No,  but  it  seems  as  if 
I  had  known  you  " 

"  If  you  will  tell  me  your  name,"  she  said  hesitatingly.  A  faint 
smile  crept  over  his  face  with  recognition,  *  'You  are  the  little  Lo- 
rena  who  wouldn't  epeak  to  me  without  an  introduction.  Will  the 
old  one  do,  or  must  I  get  a  new  one  ?" 

"  Judge  Harville  !"  she  exclaimed,  "can  it  be  possible?  I  never 
expected  to  see  you  again,  much  less  under  these  circumstances." 

"  How  is  it  you  are  here,  all  alone?"  he  asked. 

"Oh,  my  husband,  Aleck  Westbrook,  is  night  engineer  at  the 
Silver  King  mill,  a  quarter  of  a  mile  away.  I've  lived  here  over  a 
year.  I  never  think  o  such  a  thing  as  being  afraid. 

"I  often  mock  the  coyotes  just  to  amuse  myself,  they  are  a  sort  of 
compapy;  but  ^our  cry,  tonight,  quite  horrified  me.  They  must 
have  been  starved  to  be  as  bold  as  they  were  tonight,  but  we  wont 
talk  of  that  anymore.  You  had  better  get  some  sleep  before  the 
doctor  comes." 

"What  time  is  it?"  "It  is  two  o'clock,  Aleck  always  gets  a 
light  lunch  about  twelve,  and  that  accounts  for  my  being  up  at  such 
an  hour  and  very  fortunate  it  was,"  Judge  Harville  accepted  all 
these  statements  as  the  most  natural  in  the  world,  dining  at  twelve 
o'clock  at  night,  aud  mocking  coyotes  to  amuse  one's  self,  why,  of 
course,  he  wondered  why  he  had  never  done  these  things  himself, 
and  in  the  sleep  which  crept  drowsily  on,  dreamed  he  had  turned  in- 
to a  coyote,  and  was  tracking  something  to  death. 

Aleck  Westbrook  proved  to  be  a  tall,  manly  fellow,  a  little  re- 
served, though  cordial  in  congratulation  to  the  stranger  he  found 
housed  upon  his  return,  and  very  prompt  in  bringing  the  doctor  vho 
pronounced  the  quick  and  efficient  care  the  night  before  as  likely  to 


PORTRAIT   OF   A  CALIFORNIA   GIRJL.  15 

bring  him  through  without  an  amputation,  but  his  recovery  from  the 
shock  and  all  would  be  slow. 

Seeing  that  it  was  to  be  a  long  siege.  Judge  Harville  sent  for 
choice  groceries  to  the  city,  as  his  contribution  toward  the  house- 
hold expenses,  for  provisions  in  the  town  where  supplies  were  bought 
were  incredibly  high.  He  also  sent  for  music  and  books. 

Lorena  Westbrook,  as  a  woman,  was  the  same  arch,  bright  crea- 
ture, with  a  strange  dignity  and  fearlessness  all  her  own,  that  Lore- 
na Lawrence  had  been,  and  with  the  self-reliance  that  comes  from 
frontier  life. 

Judge  Harville  from  his  place  upon  the  bed-lounge  watched  her 
curiously  in  all  her  little  duties,  as  she  sewed,  or  tidied  up  the  room, 
or  in  caring  for  the  year-old  child  which  clung  to  her  skirts.  He 
was  lost  in  admiration  of  her.  To  his  weary,  sated  eyes,  in  her 
freshness  and  vivacity — she  was  a  revelation.  Day  after  day  crept 
by,  and  his  admiration  grew  till  it  passed  the  limits  of  admiration. 
He  allowed  himself  to  break  the  tenth  commandment.  He  coveted. 

"Do  you  never  wish  that  fate  had  placed  you  in  a  beautiful  home 
in  the  midst  of  civilization  ?"  he  asked  Lorena,  one  day. 

"O,  I  don't  know.  I'm  very  happy  here.  I  have  my  piano,  and 
baby  and  husband.  1  don't  know  of  anything  else  I  want  very  much. 
I  love  this  wild  place  better  than  the  trammels  of  society." 

"But  you  would  find  congenial  society,  and  an  opportunity  for 
those  accomplishments  which  make  a  woman  so  charming  and  de- 
lightful/5 said  Judge  Harville,  insidiously.  Lorena  gave  a  little 
sigh.  "It  is  nice  to  be  accomplished,"  she  said. 

Many  were  the  visitors  that  came  in  of  an  evening.  Mrs.  West- 
brook's  simple  little  parlor  seemed  an  earthly  paradise  to  those  rough 
diamonds  who  had  left  civilization  far  behind  them  with  all  its  com- 
forts to  battle  with  the  wilderness.  Some  of  them  were  fluent  talk- 
ers, some  were  geniuses,  some  were  bores,  yet  each  was  respectful 
and  kind  in  his  admiration  of  the  engineer's  wife.  Occasionally  a 
lady  from  the  town,  four  miles  distant,  favored  her  with  a  call,  or  a 
family  who  lived  a  mile  away,  but  these  were  exceptions,  and  men 
almost  exclusively  formed  the  society  that  gathered  around  her. 

This  curious  state  of  affairs  was  not  altogether  new  to  Judge  Har- 
ville, but  it  had  never  affected  him  as  unpleasantly  as  now.  "A  bright, 
intelligent  creature  like  Lorena  to  be  wasted  on  the  desert  air,"  he 


16  PORTRAIT   OF    A   CALIFORNIA   GIRL. 

thought  to  himeelf,  impatiently — and  even  a  species  of  jealousy  took 
possession  of  him,  to  see  how  freely  and  frankly  she  met  them,  and 
how  sweetly  she  talked  to  them  all. 

"Say,  Westbrook,"  said  he,  one  day,  after  they  had  been  discus- 
sing one  of  the  habitual  bores,  "aren't  you  afraid  you'll  have  to 
straighten  out  some  of  these  fellows  some  day.  First  thing  you 
know  some  of  them  will  be  in  love  with  your  wife." 

"Oh,  no,"  laughed  back  Westbrook,  "Lorena  straightens  them 
out  as  she  goes  along. '  I'll  never  have  any  duels  to  fight  for  her." 

The  fierceness  of  the  winter  was  over,  and  spring  began  to  assert 
her  sway,  sending  down  great  freshets  ladeued  with  boulders  from 
the  mountains,  and  touching  into  life  the  sparse  vegetation.  "Here 
is  the  harbinger  of  spring,"  said  Lorena,  one  day,  bringing  in  a 
branch  of  willow,  which  had  commenced  to  sprout  in  tiny  buds  of 
wool.  "And  in  California  the  roses  are  blooming,  the  lilies  shining 
white,  and  the  whole  earth  covered  with  green/'  said  Harville. 

She  turned  upon  him  fiercely,  "Why  are  you  always  trying  to  fill 
me  with  discontent?  I  never  thought  of  such  a  thing  till  you  came." 

Harville  smiled  to  himself.  "Because  I  cannot  bear  to  see  you 
satisfied  with  such  a  life."  Lorena  looked  at  him  in  bewilderment. 
But  he  said  no  more,  and  she  had  nothing  to  say  being  puzzled  to 
catch  his  meaning. 

The  roads  were  now  in  good  condition,  and  Judge  Harville's  crutch 
almost  unnecessary,  everything  pnnted  to  there  being  no  further  ex- 
cuse for  his  remaining  in  such  a  wild,  desolate  spot.  But  Aleck 
told  him  to  be  in  110  haste,  he  was  glad  to  have  such  good  company 
for  his  wife,  and  had  enjoyed  the  time  spent  together.  They  did 
live  delightfully  in  that  strange  place,  with  music  (Harville  was  an 
accomplished  musician),  with  reading  (he  was  a  fine  reader),  with 
communions  with  Nature  and  the  charming  little  suppers  at  twelve 
every  night,  and  sleeping  in  the  morning,  turning  day  into  night, 
and  night  into  day,  with  no  bustle  of  the  outside  world,  no  weary 
seeking^  after  pleasure,  no  mingling  with  great  crowds  of  people, 
utterly  indifferent  to  each  other,  but  each  new  human  being  a  study 
and  a  revelation. 

One  day,  together,  they  went  to  the  Indian  Camp,  quite  near,  and 
watched  the  dark-faced  creatures  prepare  their  meals,  and  try  the 


PORTBAIIT    OP   A   CALIFORNIA    GIBL  17 

steps  of  the  Indian   dance,   preparatory   to   the   grand  pow-wow  on 
Walker's  river. 

"1  wish  we  both  were  savages  like  these,"  said  Harville,  in  a  low 
tone. 

"Why?"   she  responded,  "what  idea  have  you  in  that?" 

"So  that  we  should  not  be  bound  by  these  laws  civilization  puts 
upon  us." 

"I  am  glad  that  your  wish  cannot  come  true,  for  I  love  law  and 
order  "  she  laughed  back  in  reply.  But  something  in  his  tone 
alarmed  her. 

The  next  day,  with  her  baby,  she  went  out  seeking  new  flowers 
that  she  knew  where  to  find,  and  stayed  beyond  her  time.  Mean- 
while Aleck,  who  had  waked  before  his  usual  hour  in  the  day,  was 
out  of  temper  for  no  particular  cause,  as  a  man  can  easily  be  some- 
times, and  stepping  into  the  kitchen,  saw  the  bread,  forgotten  in  its 
capabilities  for  expansion,  a  great  frothy  roll  over  the  sides  of  the 
pan,  and  even  dripping  on  the  floor. 

At  this  moment  Lorena  and  the  baby  came  in  the  back  door,  both 
trimmed  with  wild  flowers,  a  pretty  bloom  on  their  faces,  and  a 
smiling  look  in  their  eyes. 

"You  had  a  d — n  sight  better  stay  home  and  tend  to  this  bread," 
said  Aleck,  crossly,  yet  touched  by  the  pretty  picture  of  his  wife  and 
child,  and  regretting  his  temper  on  the  instant. 

Without  a  word,  but  the  bloom  blanched  in  a  moment,  Lorena 
walked  past  him  into  her  room. 

Judge  Harville  observed  this  little  scene  and  wondered  what  she 
would  do,  but  in  a  moment  she  came  out  and  got  supper  quietly, 
after  Aleck's  departure  taking  up  her  sewing. 

Harville  sat  and  watched  her.  Since  he  had  allowed  himself  to 
covet  that  which  was  his  neighbor's,  he  had,  with  many  dallyings 
with  conscience,  proved  to  himself  that  his  ultimate  object  was  a  good 
one,  a  real  kindness,  cruel  perhaps — like  the  shooting  of  his  horse  to 
put  him  out  of  his  misery — but  a  kindness,  a  good  deed,  after  all; 
such  tricks  does  pure,  unadulterated  reason,  untouched  with  con- 
science, play  with  a  man's  judgment  !  He  was  no  worse,  no  better, 
than  many  men  we  know  and  believe  to  be  honorable. 

He  would  not  sully  by  a  word  Lorenars  purity  of  soul;  he  loved 
her  too  deeply 'for  that;  he  wanted  her  for  his  wife.  He  was  a  law- 


18  PORTRAIT    OF   A   CALIFORNIA   GIEL. 

yer,  and  a  crafty  one,  and  knew  well  the  nieshes  of  the  law  and  how 
he  could  disentangle  her  from  her  present  position  and  make  her  his 
own.  And  he  had  convinced  himself  that  it  would  be  a  kindness  to 
her  in  the  end. 

"To  think  of  such  a  rare  creature  condemned  to  these  dismal 
things  of  life,  such  a  barren,  miserable  outlook  !  I'll  place  her  in  a 
sphere  more  fitted  to  her  charms  and  graces,  for  where  will  not  Judge 
Harville's  wife  be  welcome?" 

And  so  he  sat  there,  thinking  all  these  things,  how  lovely  she 
would  look  in  a  beautiful  home,  and  what  a  joy  to  free  her  from  all 
this  toil  and  hard  work,  this  lovely  creature  who  had  saved  his  life — 
what  would  he  not  surround  her  with  to  soften  life  for  her?" 

"Lorena,"  be  said,  softly. 

"Well,"  she  responded,  as  if  nothing  strange  were  suggested  by 
his  familiar  method  of  address. 

"Do  you  never  tire  of  this  dreary  life  ?" 

She  looked  at  him  a  second,  as  if  measuring  him.  "Oh,  no,"  she 
responded,  carelessly. 

"Lorena,"  he  said  again,  and  his  voice  was  thrillmg?y  low,  "listen 
to  me." 

"I'm  listening,"  she  repeated,  carelessly  again. 

"Lorena,  don't  you  see  the  love  shining  out  of  my  eyes  ?  Don't 
you  see  that  I  adore  you?'' 

"That's  nothing  new,"  she  laugbed  back;  "I've  always  been 
adored.  I  can't  remember  when  I  wasn't  adored." 

"But  I  want  you  for  my  own,"  he  whispered,  yet  not  coming  any 
closer — he  knew  he  dared  not. 

"That's  nothing  new,  either,"  she  laughed,  again,  "there's  always 
been  somebody  who  wanted  me  for  their  own;  in  fact,  if  that's  in- 
tended for  a  pleasant  remark,  I'm  dreadfully  tired  of  it." 

"But  seriously,  Mrs.  VVestbrook,"  said  he,  in  a  different  tone, 
"how  can  you  be  happy  in  such  a  place  as  this,  and  with  a  man  who 
swears  at  you  ?" 

The  pretty  chin  quivered,  still  she  kept  up  her  play  of  speech, 
and  said,  most  innocently,  "One  would  suppose  that  you  had  never 
heard  anybody  swear  before,"  and  then,  rising,  "I  must  see  to 
Aleck's  supper;  poor  fellow,  he'll  be  very  hungry  when  he  returns." 


PORTRAIT   OF   A   CALIFORNIA   GIRL.  19 

And  soon  she  was  busied  with  the  fire,  and  preparing  a*  oyster  stew 
for  him. 

His  step  was  soon  heard,  and  after  a  bright  little  talk  around  the 
table,  he  went  back  again  to  his  work.  Loreua,  hurrying  away  the 
dishes,  and  clearing  up,  retired  to  her  own  room  and  Blocked  the 
door. 

Judge  Harville  soon  sought  his  own  couch,  but  not  to  sleep.  He 
was  restless,  irritated,  but  more  determined  than  ever. 

In  her  room,  Lorena  acted  very  strangely;  she  seemed  suffocating; 
she  kissed  the  sleeping  babe,  then,  drawing  a  shawl  over  her  head, 
cautiously  opened  the  window  and  crept  out,  and  dropping  to  the 
ground  noiselessly,  she  walked  up  the  narrow  road  in  the  waning 
light  of  the  old  moon. 

'  Oh,  I  could  kill  him,  I  could  kill  him  !"  she  cried  to  herself, 
passionately,  "but  I  shall  have  to  deny  myself  that  pleasure."  For 
an  hour  she  walked  up  familiar  pathways  over  the  rocks,  looking 
down  upon  rocky  gorges  and  black,  abysmal  shadows  between  the 
mountains,  and  sat  down  to  rest  a  moment. 

She  heard  a  faint  rustle,  a  chasing  movement,  and  in  its  terror,  a 
white  rabbit  that  had  not  yet  changed  its  winter  coat  for  grey, 
crouched  close  to  her  foot,  and  from  behind  the  rock  below  came  a 
shadow — a  coyote.  Quickly  she  threw  a  handful  of  stones,  which 
made  the  ugly  beast  skulk  away.  Loreua  stooped  to  stroke  the 
trembling,  terrified  little  creature  at  her  feet,  but  in  an  instant  it  had 
leaped  away  and  was  gone. 

"OGod!"  exclaimed  the  lonely  little  human  creature  on  the 
rock,  as  a  similar  picture  to  the  scene  just  enacted  before  her,  came 
to  her  vision.  "  Can  I  come  close  to  your  foot  for  protection,  as 
this  rabbit  has  done  to  me?  You  are  so  far  away,  God  i  If  you 
had  left  me  mother  she  would  have  helped  me.  I  am  so  lonely,  and 
the  Bad  is  so  near/' 

This  solitary,  little  human-being  on  tbe  bleak  and  craggy  Sierra, 
without  knowing  it,  expressed,  in  her  deep  despair  and  anguish,  the 
true  Persian  theory  of  belief — that  Good  and  Evil  (Ormuzd  and 
Ahriman)  are  contending  for  the  mastery,  and  the  human  being  is 
free  to  choose  one  or  the  other;  and  110  worshiper,  at  the  old-time 
altar  of  incense,  could  have  prayed  more  earnestly  nor  passionately 


20  PORTRAIT    OF    A    CALIFORNIA    GIRL. 

to  be  delivered,  than  this  untaught  mountain  child  of  the  wilderness, 
trusting  to  her  intuitions  alone. 

The  wise  and  cynical  may  smile  or  sneer,  but  to  the  end  of  time, 
the  despair  of  prophets  and  philosophers  can  never  carry  them  be- 
yond the  Persian  theory  of  belief,  nor  the  despair  of  hunted  souls 
find  greater  consolation  than  that  strange  instinct  which  bids  them 
creep  close  to  His  foot. 

Suddenly  her  tears  ceased,  she  laughed  hysterically,  "If  I 
haven't  mother,  I  have  my  baby,"  and  her  tears  flowed  again,  but 
they  were  sobs  of  joy.  Those  tears  washed  out  all  blur  or  spot  that, 
like  mould  or  rust,  was  beginning  to  faintly  touch  that  pure,  young 
soul. 

She  arose,  and  with  impatient  step  made  her  way  down  from  the 
frowning  mountain,  with  its  abysmal  shadows  and  deep  gorges,  and 
running  down  the  road  to  the  little  cabin  home  in  the  canyon,  hast- 
ened in,  and  with  the  key  which  she  had  taken  with  her,  unlocked 
the  door  and  seized  her  treasure.  Wrapping  it  warm  in  shawls  with 
motherly  instinct,  she  carried  it  out  into  the  night,  and  kissed  it 
again  and  again.  What  an  experience  for  a  babe  !  But  it  was  used 
to  its  mother's  eccentricities,  and  was  always  ready  to  accompany  her  to 
the  deepest  gorge,  the  highest  peak.  It  was  sent  to  be  her  comforter, 
audits  trust  in  her  was  infinite.  The  darkest  night  it  looked  up  in  her 
'  face  and  emiled,  not  knowing  whither  it  was  going,  and  caring  not 
whither  so  that  it  was  with  her. 

Harville  could  not  sleep,  and  the  sound  of  her  coming  in  and  going 
out  attracted  his  attention.  Looking  from  the  small-paned  window, 
he  saw  her  hurrying  away.  In  an  instant  he  had  flung  on  his  clothes 
and  was  following.  What  rash  thing  was  she  about  to  do — three 
ojclock  in  the  morning  straying  through  that  bleak  wilderness  ?  He 
Would  follow  and  protect  her  from  a  distance . 

What  a  picture  of  strangeness  and  unreality  !  The  waning  moon 
shone  with  a  sickly  glare,  and  looking  down  saw  amid  the  rocks  and 
fantastically-heaped  mountains,  a  little  open  gulch,  through  which 
passed  a  small  woman  with  a  large  baby  in  her  arms,  hurrying 
along,  small  but  brave,  and  at  a  distance  a  man  following,  anxious 
and  full  of  dread.  But  the  moon  faintly  smiled  as  she  saw  the  red 
light  beaming  from  the  mill,  and  the  mother  and  child  seek  entrance. 

But  the  man  frowned,  and   hastening,  saw,  unobserved,  a   picture 


PORTRAIT   OF   A    CALIFORNIA   GIRL.  21 

of  domestic  blisrf — Aleck  with  his  arms  enfolding  the  two,  Lorena, 
whose  head  was  pillowed  on  his  shoulder,  and  the  babe  which  crowed 
its  joy  in  the  strange  accents  of  the  baby  language,  that  tongue  which 
doubtless  contains  cognate  sounds  with  the  first  and  original  language 
of  the  human  race. 

The  protective  feeling  first  aroused  in  his  breast  gave  way  to  jeal- 
ous hatred  and  ugliness  of  feeling,  and  he  swore  an  oath  to  himself — 
an  ugly  oath — that  he  would  destroy  this  happiness,  or — " 

Human  nature  is  so  strange  !  From  love  comes  hate,  from  pro- 
tection, destruction,  in  only  a  moment.  From  the  kindly,  loving 
friend  of  five  minutes  before,  wishing  to  avert  danger  from  Lorena's 
path,  he  became  transformed  into  a  subtle  enemy  determined  to  de- 
stroy her  happiness.  Love  is  an  awful  thing.  It  ccoes  like  a  dove, 
it  coils  like  a  serpent. 

Not  daring  to  trust  himself  at  the  window  farther,  he  returned  to 
the  house,  his  iron  will  bent  relentlessly  on  subjugation. 

"  Lorena,"  said  Aleck, "you  don't  know  how  badly  I  felt  today — 
and  you  took  it  so  quietly,  and  did  the  work  so  cheerfully.  You 
have  a  hard  time,  little  woman,"  he  said  with  feeling.  "And  I've 
been  thinking  it  all  over.  I'm  going  to  make  a  dead  set  to  get  out 
of  this  business,  and  let  you  see  something  of  the  world.  And  we'll 
go  to  San  Francisco,  and  go  to  all  the  operas  and  concerts — how  we'll 
enjoy  the  music — and  baby  there'shall  grow  up  a  civilized  child  in- 
stead of  a  savage.  How  did  you  know  I  was  wanting  you  so  ?" 

"  O,  Aleck,"  cried  Lorena,  full  of  happiness,  "I  wanted  you." 
What  truer  answer  could  be  born  of  love  ? 

They  sat  there  in  the  flickering  light  of  the  lamps,  the  ponderous 
fly-wheel  whirling  around,  the  shining  steel  machinery  sliding  back- 
ward and  forward  with  its  subtle  intricacies  of  mechanism,  and 
pleasant  noise,  so  strangely  out  of  proportion  with  the  clamp,  clamp 
of  the  stamps  and  the  hissing  of  the  pans  in  the  body  of  the  mill. 
The  engine-room  was  retirement  in  comparison. 

Aleck  made  a  little  nest  in  the  corner  with  his  coat  and  a  blanket, 
and  the  baby  was  allowed  to  finish  its  nap,  going  to  sleep  as  obedi- 
ently as  it  had  wakened . 

"  I  never  realized  until  to-night,  Lorena,  how  you  would  shine  in 
society,  you  have  such  good  taste  and  are  so  bright  and  clever. 
And  I  thought  if  I  didn't  tell  you  of  it,  somebody  else  might  get  in 


22  PORTRAIT   OF   A   CALIFORNIA   GIRL. 

ahead  of  me,  sometime.  And  the  first  thing  I'd  know,  my  little 
Lorena  might  be  running  away  with  some  other  fellow;"  and  Aleck 
laughed . 

"Oh,  Aleck,"  said  Lorena,  reproachfully. 

"  Well,  we'll  fix  that  all  right,  I'm  going  to  run  away  with  you 
myself;  I'm  going  to  be  that  other  fellow." 

Then  they  both  laughed.  Was  it  a  childish  happiness  that  made 
the  rafters  of  that  mill  re-echo  with  merry  laughter  ! 

<{  £>ay,  Aleck,"  said  Lorena,  "how  much  happier  we  are  alone.  I 
wish  Judge  Harville  would  go.  If  he  speaks  of  it  again,  don't  urge 
him  to  stay,  will  you  ?" 

<f  Why,  no  !"  said  Aleck,  looking  surprised,  "but  I  thought  he 
made  it  pleasant  for  you.  Why?  has  be  commenced  to  talk  silly? 
If  he  has  forgotten  himself" — what  a  threat  of  vengeance  was  con- 
veyed in  that  tone  ! 

"Oh,  no,"  laughed  Lorena,  "only  he  bores  me,  a  little  of  hi* 
style  goes  a  great  way,  you  know.  It  is  six  o'clock,  isn't  it?  How  fast 
the  time  flies  in  this  dear  old  engine-room.  Come,  baby,  it  is  time 
to  go."  And  together  the  three  wended  their  way  home  in  the  grey 
and  chilly  dawn.  Certainly  her  husband's  love  was  a  charm  that 
encompassed  Lorena  round,  yet  if  he  had  not  been  so  kindly,  she 
would  possibly  have  fought  her  good  fight  against  Ahrimau,  though 
not  so  well  armed  for  the  fray.  She  had  resolved  to  meet  him  in 
open  fight,  disarm  and  overcome  him  if  she  could.  There  must  be 
no  scene,  no  trouble,  no  scandal,  it  must  be  subtly,  silently  done. 

Judge  Harville  was  courtesy  itself  all  day.  Aleck  almost  forgot 
Lorena's  instructions  on  the  matter,  and  certainly  his  faintest  sus- 
picion. 

But  when  evening  came  and  Aleck  was  gone,  he  turned  to  her 
with  supplication  in  his  eyes  that  was  almost  irresistible.  He  com- 
menced to  tell  the  story  of  his  life,  garnished  with  brilliant  bits  of 
philosophy,  it  had  even  an  element  of  pathos  in  it.  Lorena's  fancy 
was  kindled  unconsciously.  Her  work  lay  neglected  in  her  lap,  the 
baby,  after  sleeping  all  day,  refused  to  sleep  any  more  and  amused 
itself  tumbling  blocks  around  upon  the  floor. 

He  went  on,  the  deep  love  he  felt  for  her  coloring  everything  he 
touched  upon,  the  impression  she  had  made  upon  him  as  a  little  girl, 
till  finally  he  reached  the  snow  and  her  strange  appearance  with  the 


PORTRAIT    OF   A   CALIFORNIA   GIRL.  23 

light.  "Oh,  Lorena,  Fate  has  ordained  this  from  the  beginning  of 
the  world,  that  we  should  meet  and  mingle  our  lives.  You  cannot 
escape  from  fate." 

"Well,"  said  she  laughing,  though  it  sounded  strangely  hollow, 
"I  shall  spoil  fate  for  once — I'm  just  stubborn  enough  to  defy  it 
where  my  will  is  concerned." 

"It  seems  wrong  to  you  now/'  said  the  voice  of  the  tempter,  "but 
a  year  from  now  in  a  high  and  noble  position,  Mrs.  Judge  Harville 
shall  find  that  she  has  escaped  from  a  galling  slavery  and  bondage . 
In  her  beautiful  and  lovely  home  with  congenial  friends  and  time  for 
culture  and  improvement,  she  will  wonder  at  the  tame  and  profitless 
existence  she  led  in  the  years  forever  past,  and  rejoice  that  she  bad 
had  the  ambition,  the  wisdom  to  grasp  the  opportunity  which  had 
lifted  her  from  that  condition  which  presented  happiness  as  the  hap- 
piness of  a  sheep,  dull,  quiet,  aimless;  enough  to  eat,  but  nothing 
else."  Harville  was  nothing  if  not  subtle. 

"Is  this  what  I  saved  you  from  the  coyotes  for?"  asked  Lorena 
quietly,  yet  a  little  dazzled  by  the  picture  he  so  brilliantly  painted 
her. 

"I  know  I  stand  in  a  bad  light  at  present,"  he  said  rapidly,  "but 
you  are  too  lovely  and  dainty  a  blossom  to  blush  unseen,  and  should 
see  something  of  the  world." 

"That's  what  Aleck  said,  to-day,"  said  she  artlessly. 

"I  am  the  instrument  of  fate  sent  to  interfere  in  your  behalf,  and 
in  the  years  to  come  you  will  thank  me  for  the  interference.  You 
have  saved  my  life.  It  belongs  to  you  rightfully;  take  it  then  and 
do  what  you  will  with  it." 

Lorena  looked  into  his  eyes  hopelessly.  Where  were  her  subter- 
fuges, her  little  arts  to  cover  her  feelings,  where  were  the  subtleties 
with  which  she  wa<?  going  to  disarm  him?  All  seemed  in  a  daze 
around  her. 

"All  conventionalities  shall  be  observed.  There  shall  be  no  scan- 
cUl.  I  know  enough  of  the  technicalities  of  the  law  to  set  you  free 
from  this  bondage  without  a  mar  to  sully  your  fair  name;  and  after 
that — for  I  shall  be  pitient — the  justice  or  the  minister,  which  ever 
you  like,  shall  give  me  the  right  to  care  for  you."  He  spoke  in  a 
low,  thrilling  tone. 

"Judge  Harville,  it  his  always  been  the  great  desire  of  my  life  to 


24  PORTRAIT    OF   A    CALIFORNIA    GIRL. 

exert  a  good  influence  on  those  around  me.  Are  you  deliberately 
going  to  make  me  feel  that  I  am  responsible  for  all  this  terrible,  ter- 
rible thing  that  you  are  talking  about?"  It  was  a  direct  appeal, 
and  should- have  awakened  his  better  self .  But  that  vanity  of  his 
was  underneath  all,  strong  and  exacting.  He  was  irritated  by  her 
resistance,  and  threw  off  the  mask  which  he  had  so  carefully  worn. 

"I  don't  know  anything  about  your  good  influence,  I  only  know 
that  you  wakea  the  very  devil  in  me  when  you  come  near  me.  And 
I  cannot  endure  to  see  you  tied  to  a  stupid  dolt  of  a  man  who  cares 
nothing  for  you.  It  simply  maddens  me."  His  voice  was  boarge 
and  his  eyes  were  full  of  evil  light. 

Lorena's  eyes  were  riveted  on  him,  a  strange  little  red  flame 
seemed  to  burn  in  their  depths.  Was  ehe  going  to  succumb? 

"If  I  should  be  in  great  distress,"  she  said  in  slow,  measured  tones, 
her  pupils  dilated  beyond  their  usual  size,  "if  some  one  was  hound- 
ing me,  and  driving  me  to  death,  could  I  claim  your  protection?' ' 

"Claim  my  protection  ?"  he  repeated  in  surprise,  and  rising  to  his 
full  height,  he  spoke,  "Lorena,  I'd  protect  you  with  more  than  my 
life  if  there  were  anything  more  to  offer." 

"Then,  Judge  Harville,"  said  Lorena,  slowly,  rising  also,  "/ 
claim  your  protection" — her  voice  faltered,  her  eyes  fell,  sobs  choked 
her  while  her  heart  surged  up  in  mighty  throbs — 'll  claim  your  pro- 
tection from  yourself." 

Turning  to  the  table,  she  fell  upon  her  chair,  burying  her  face  up- 
on her  arm,  and  cried  like  a  broken-hearted  child,  the  babe  at  her 
feet  clinging  to  her  dress,  and  sobbing  in  unison  with  its  stricken 
mother. 

Judge  Harville  drew  a  long  breath.  He  walked  up  and  down  the 
room  a  moment.  The  evil  light  died  out  of  his  eyes.  He  felt  him- 
self a  black-hearted  fiend — a  Mephistopheles — all  the  false  reasoning 
in  his  premises  stood  out  like  lightning  in  the  black  night — his  vision 
became  clearer — his  selfishness  more  apparent.  He  walked  to  her 
side,  laid  his  band  gently  upon  her  soft  hair. 

"Don't  grieve,"  he  said,  "you  have  my  protection" 

And  that  was  all. 

Daily  lives  must  go  on,  and  daily  tasks  must  be  done,  though  the 
heavens  fall,  or  earthquakes  rend  the  world.  Very  quietly  Judge 
Harville  took  his  departure,  but  he  never  forgot  for  a  moment,  a 


POETBAIT    OF   A    CALIFORNIA    G1BL.  25 

certain  purpose  which  took  possession  of  him,  and  after  much  wire 
pulling  and  utilizing  of  secret  influence,  he  had  the  pleasure  of  hear- 
ing that  Aleck  Westbrook  had  received  an  appointment  from  the 
Governor  of  the  State,  which  placed  him  in  a  position  of  trust  and 
well  on  the  road  to  fortune. 

Years  have  passed  since  that  act  of  eelt-abnegation,  and  last  winter 
Judge  Harville  was  called  to  Washington  to  attend  to  an  intricate 
matter  of  law. 

At  one  of  the  receptions,  where  he  went  merely  as  a  spectator,  he 
stood  gazing  at  the  gay  throng  with  weary,  careless  eyes,  when  sud- 
denly a  profile  among  the  throng  carried  him  back  eight  years  in  his 
life. 

He  saw  the  gloomy  canon  covered  with  snow,  a  light  shining 
from  a  window,  he  felt  again  the  breath  of  the  coyotes  upon  his  cheek. 

The  face  turned.  It  was  indeed  Lorena,  bright,  arch,  as  ever  he 
pictured  her,  clad  in  a  shimmering  eatin  robe  of  white,  leaning  upon 
her  husband's  arm,  and  leading  by  the  hand  a  beautiful  little  girl  in 
daintiest  lace,  erratic  a  mother  as  ever,  taking  the  child  as  naturally 
with  her  to  a  reception,  as  out  into  the  blackness  of  the  night  in  the 
wild  Sierras. 

A  gladnees  came  into  Judge  Harville's  heart,  and  overflowed  at 
his  eyes.  He  felt  a  strange  sensation  of  nearness  to  that  beautiful, 
womanly  figure.  It  was  Lorena,  and  she  was  resting  under  his  pro- 
tection still.  ELLA  STERLING  CUMMINS, 

Author  of  "The  Mountain  Princees." 


QUARTZ. 


(FROM  A  MINER'S  MEMORY.) 


CHAPTER  ONE. 

STRIKE. 

The  men  who  strike  for  silver  mines  in  the  arid  country  of  the 
State  of  Silverado  are  called  "prospectors."  They  are  a  curious 
compound  of  the  laborer,  the  speculator  and  the  scientist.  Your 
* 'prospector"  is  not,  usually,  when  you  meet  him,  what  he  has  been. 
You  accost  him,  or  he  you,  and  it  becomes  at  once  evident  that  the 
man  before  you  belongs  to  no  class  or  province,  and  you  cannot  guess 
at  his  position  in  life  with  any  certainty.  He  has  upon  his  person 
the  commonest  of  "store  clothes/'  generally  well  worn,  coarse  woolen 
shirts,  open  at  the  sun-tanned  neck;  no  coat,  slouch  hat,  pants  in 
rough  boots.  But  his  dress  and  address  do  not  go  together  in  har- 
mony; his  conversation  is  just  whatever  your  own  may  invite,  until 
you  strike  the  subject  of  mines  or  silver  ores;  then  he  leads  into  a 
world  of  travel,  speculation,  rise,  progress  failure,  until  you  find  this 
sun-burnt  man  has  bandied  coin  in  his  day,  and  means  to  do  it 
again. 

He  may  have  been  a  minister  of  the  gospel,  a  lawyer,  a  physician, 
politician,  merchant,  etc;  but  not  often  do  you  find  him  to  have  been 
a  day-laborer,  save  on  compulsion.  Wiry,  tough,  irrepressible,  and 
far-traveled,  patient  yet  excitable,  his  experience  is  large  and  various, 
and  his  love  of  adventure  with  hope  of  great  gain  is  as  boundless  and 


QUARTZ.  27 

often  as  barren   as   the   region  of  mountains   he    loves     „ 
Poverty  and  privation  he  bears  like  a  philosopher;    while  a    !       e  *s 
to  him  only  "for  the  fun  of  it,"  and  he  makes  short  work  ° 
ing  thousands  of  dollars  on  old  and  new  sensations. 

He  talks  about  a  home  which  he  has,  or  wishes  to  have;  but,  gen- 
erally, he  has  no  home,  and  never  will  have  any,  outside  of  the 
clothes  he  happens  to  be  wearing.  And  where  he  goes  when  he  must 
lie  down  and  die  I  have  never  discovered.  That  he  does  die  I  take 
for  certain;  but,  except  in  a  fight  or  by  accident,  I  have  never  known 
of  a  dead  "prospector." 

He  is  the  creator  of  new  states  and  the  driving  power  of  the  Stock 
Boards;  yet  people  e.ndeavor  to  treat  him,  unless  he  is  flush  of 
money,  as  a  person  of  little  importance.  The  merchant,  the  lawyer, 
the  ranchman,  physician — everybody  —  lives  in  Silverado,  on  the 
results  of  the  prospector's  exertions;  yet  even  the  camp-followers 
think  themselves  more  respectable  and  higher-toned  than  he,  the 
Moses  who  leads  them  about  in  the  wilderness. 

Almost  always  he  has  a  faithful  partner  in  his  joys,  journeyings 
and  sorrows,  and  that  partner  is  a  man.  This  fellowship  is  imposed 
by  the  fact  that  it  takes  two  to  sink  a  deep  hole  in  the  ground  or  a 
drill  in  the  rock;  and  it  requires  two  to  accomplish  such  an  experience 
as  shall  now  be  presented. 

It  snows  heavily  as  out  of  the  sage-covered  wilderness  two  men, 
riding,  urge  a  laden  mule  into  a  beaten  road  and  turn  toward  a 
mining  center,  shifting  in  their  saddles  to  give  the  wet  a  • "  driving 
g now  a  cold  shoulder. 

Pushing  steadily  onward,  a  farm-house  near  the  roadside  rises  out 
upon  the  horizon.  Boy  in  front  of  the  house  rushes  in  to  say : 
"  Mother,  two  men  a-comin'!" 

Woman  (outside  of  house) — "What,  in  a  buggy  ?" 

Boy. — No;  on  horses  an'  drivin'  a  mule." 

Woman.     "Pshaw  lonly  prospectors." 

By  this  time  the  two  rough,  ragged  fellows,  with  beards  awry, 
hair  uncut  and  unkempt  beneath  the  slouched  hats,  ride  to  the  door. 

Prospector  (to  boy.) — "Well,  but  ain't  this  winter?" 

Boy.— "You  bet,  His!" 

Prospector  (at  the  open  door.) — "Cold,  bad  day,  madam." 

Woman  (inattentively.) — "I  reckon  it  is." 


28  QUARTZ, 

Prospector. — "Madam,  could  you  let  us  have  about  two  loavea  of 
bread  ?  And,  tell  you  the  truth,  we  haven't  a  cent  in  our  clothes,  but 
we're  likely  to  be  along  this  way  again  soon,  and  we  haven't  a  bite." 

Woman. — "I  haven't  got  none  baked,  and  something's  the  matter 
with  my  yeast.  I  won't  have  no  bread  till  most  night." 

Prospector  (turning  away.) — "It  would  accommodate  us  very 
much,  but  you  know  best,  madam,  about  your  own  affairs.  Good 
day." 

Prospector  (remounting.) — "Couldn't  make  it,  old  boy  !  We'll 
have  to  ride  for  it." 

Old  Boy— "H— 1  !  Couldn't  you  git  nuthin'  ?" 

Prospector. — "Not  a  enoot-full.  I  spoke  a  lively  piece  to  the  old 
gal,  but  she  wouldn't  come  out.  Go  ahead,  we  may  be  happy  yet." 

Woman  (inside. ) — ( 'Johnny  !  Johnny,  do  you  hear  ?" 

Boy  (outside.)  —  "yes'm.     What  yer  want  ?" 

Woman— "What'd  them  fellers  say?" 

Boy. — "One  of  'em  called  yer  an  old  gal." 

Woman. — "That's  cause  I  wouldn't  turn  to  and  bake  for  'em;  'zif 
I  hadn't  nuthin  to  do  but  bake  for  people  who  are  flat  broke  !  Them 
prospectors  is  allus  flat  broke.  Why  don't  they  stay  at  home  and 
work,  like  I  do  ?  Fetch  in  your  wood,  Johnny;  it's  going  to  be  a  cold 
night  when  it  stops  a-snowin'." 

Boy. — "Yes'm.  Them  men's  got  to  make  Simniins'  ranch  afore 
they  git  a  bite,  an'  that  pack  mule's  mighty  nigh  petered  out,  if  you 
hear  me." 

Woman.— "That's  none  o'  yore  business;  you  git  yore  wood  an' 
come  in  the  house  an'  dry  yore  feet." 

Time  passes  at  the  ranch,  time  passes  on  the  road;  time  passes  in 
the  nearest  mining  town;  time  passes  in  the  lonely  mountains  where 
the  rich  earth  lies  about  the  open  shaft;  time  passes  in  the  great  com- 
mercial city,  where  trade  and  science  sigh  for  silver;  and  amidst  the 
the  great  city,  past  the  ranch,  along  the  road,  through  the  mining 
town  and  to  the  open  cut  in  the  lonely  mountains,  there  moves  the 
love  of  gain — that  subtlest  of  spirits.  So,  on  a  day  of  bright,  white 
winter  sunshine,  the  boy  outside  the  ranche,  gazing  up  the  road  be- 
neath his  own  shading  palm,  shouts,  "Pap  !  buggy  comin';  high 
steppers,  you  bet  !" 

Pap  (drowsy,  frowzy,  red-faced  aud   smoke-scented,    appearing  at 


QUARTZ.  29 

the  door),  "Which  way,  from  town?  (Looking  towuward)  I  say, 
Symanthy,  I'll  bet  that's  them  fellers  what's  found  them  new  mines 
out  yander.  They'll  want  dinner  in  a  hurry." 

Woman — (looking  over  old  Frowzy 's  shoulder  as  both  stand  in  the 
door),  " Them's  liberty  stable  stock,  and  coyote-robes;  high-flyers, 
you  bet!  Yer  sir!  Johnny,  make  a  fire  in  the  stove  this  minit!" 

All  in  one  moment  there  happens  here  a  multitude  of  incidents, 
chief  among  which  "old  Frowzy"  finds  his  hat,  puts  it  on,  comes  to 
the  door  again  in  time  to  say  to  the  newly  arrived  party,  as  the 
"high-stepping"  team  drives  up,  "Fine  day,  gents." 

Man  in  carriage — "Yes,  tip- top  day.  How  about  something  to 
eat  for  man  and  beast?" 

Old  Frowzy — "Lots  of  hay  and  barley;  and  I  reckon  the  old  wo- 
man kin  give  you  enough  to  eat — seeh  as  we've  got. 

The  man  who  holds  the  reins  smiles,  and  without  making  the  least 
motion  to  alight  or  drop  them,  remarks:  "Yes,  but  boss,  we're  flat 
broke — havn't  a  red." 

Old  Frowzy,  with  eyes  on  the  fine  turnout,  "Oh,  that  makes  no 
odds  in  a  new  country!  we  all  get  that  way  at  odd  times." 

Here  the  man  above  hands  the  reins  to  old  Frowzy,  and  the  whole 
party  alight.  On  moving  near  the  door  they  are  met  by  madam  of 
the  rancho  with,  "Walk  in  gentlemen,  and  take  a  seat.  Bid  you 
say  you  would  have  dinner?" 

He  of  the  reins — "Yes  madam,  if  you  have  bread  enough  baked, 
we'll  all  take  a  bite." 

Woman — "Bread  enough?  Why  certainly,  I  allus  have  that." 

Reins — "Well,  excuse  me,  madam,  I  didn't  know.  Sometimes 
people  In  these  out-of-the-way  places,  get  short  of  convenient  grub." 

Woman — "I  don't  never  fail  to — oh!  I  see!  You're  mebbe  the 
man  as  come  by  here  about  six  weeks  ago.  Well,  now,  you  see,  I 
can't  allus  tell  whose  a  joshin  me  and  who  isn't.  Why  I  thought 
you  was  a-a  jokin'  that  day;  you  prospectors  are  all  the  time  on  the 
josh!" 

Reins — "That's  all  right,  ma'm;  I  expect  I  did  look  sort  o'  gay 
and  festive  that  day,  and  we  had  a  jolly  time  after  we  passed  here." 

By  this  time  madam  is  away  in  the  adjacent  room  of  the  cabin, 
deep  in  the  mysteries  of  bacon,  canned  salmon,  black  coffee,  etc., 
but  Reins  goes  on  with  the  story  thus  wise: 


30  QUABTZ. 

"We  rode  (Sain  and  me)  from  here  to  Simrmns';  that's  the  first 
ranch  this  side  of  town,  on  horses  that  we  had  already  pushed  hard 
to  reach  this  place,  and  we  hadn't  a  bite  of  anything  to  eat  that  day, 
and  d — d  little  to  eat  for  three  days,  because  we  were  holding  out  to 
the  last  minute  to  develop  the  prospect,  and  working  on  short  ra- 
tions. But  xi e  left  here  at  late  dinner-time,  rode  all  night,  and  it 
a-enowing  for  keeps,  and  the  horses  stilted  up  on  snow- balls,  till 
next  day  about  noon  we  struck  Simmins.  Lord  God!  I  was  never 
so  happy  in  my  life  as  when  old  Dan  Simmins  looked  me  square  in 
the  face  and  gays  he:  "Well  if  h — 1  ain't  a-goin'  to  pop  then  I'm  no 
Christian!"  (you  know  how  old  Dan  talks.)  "Where  in  h — 1  have 
you  been ?"  says  he.  "Why,  you  look  like  a  sick  woman's  baby! 
Take  a  horn,  you'll  find  it  in  that  there  jug  in  the  corner."  I  don't 
ever  expect  to  be  so  happy  again  as  we  all  were  that  afternoon!  We 
ate  and  drank  and  sung,  and  told  yarns,  and  had  a  bully  time  inside 
the  house,  while  the  snow  was  attending  to  its  job  outside  and  a- 
coming  down  as  steady  as  clock-work.  Sam  sort  o'went  out  of  his 
mind  with  the  sudden  change — mebbe  the  whisky  had  a  hand  in  it — 
and  he  thought  he  was  back  home  in  the  States,  telling  his  mother 
all  about  his  raniblings  for  fifteen  years;  and  he  thought  old  Dan  was 
his  daddy — so,  as  he  was  telling  his  mother,  and  crying  and  laughing 
and  talking  it  was  better  than  any  theayter.  And  when  old  Dan 
would  put  in  to  help  him  out,  Sam  would  say:  "Never  you  mind, 
daddy;  you  let  me  tell  it."  Then  old  Dan  would  laugh  till  the  tears 
ran  down  his  face,  and  say,  "Go  on,  my  son,  go  on!  Your  ma  and 
me  will  listen  to  you."  We  knew  the  poor  fellow  was  wandering 
bat  it  was  funny  for  all  that — particularly  when  one  comes  to  con- 
sider what  a  maguif'  old  dad  could  be  panned  out  of  Dan  Simmins." 

"Gents,  dinner  is  ready — walk  out!  We  haven't  got  no  great 
variety,  but  its  the  best  we  have.  Yer  pap  (to  old  Frowzy)  cut  up 
and  pour  out  for  'em,  and  if  yer  want  anything  more,  holler.  I've 
got  to  go  in  the  kitchen." 

After  Frowzy  helps  the  party  to  such  as  there  is,  he  proceeds  to 
ask  a  few  leading  questions  of  a  nature  just  such  as  his  kind  are 
most  loth  to  answer — questions  looking  to  a  share  of  some  sort  in  the 
county  of  the  new  mines . 

"Hev  you  enny  ranche-land  or  good  hay-land  out  near  them  new 
prospects  ?" 


QUARTZ.  31 

"Yes.  There  are  several  spots  where  a  man  might  find  a  lay-out 
for  ranching." 

"How  is  it  for  wood  ?" 

"Plenty  of  wood/1 

"Well,  do  you  reckon  to  g>  ahead  out  there  ennyways  soon?" 

"We  can't  just  say  about  that.  The  Professor  here  will  be  able 
to  tell,  mebbe,  as  we  come  back." 

"When  do  you  'low  to  be  back  again?" 

"Well,  if  the  Professor  can  see  as  much  in  the  same  place,  and  in 
the  same  time,  as  we  can,  we  may  be  back  here  in  three  days." 

"What  are  you  goin'  to  do  about  hoss  feed  and  grub  while  yer 
there  ?" 

"Oh,  Sam's  out  there.  Didn't  he  stop  here  as  he  went  by  with  a 
team — four  horses,  high  load,  doors  and  windows  at  the  side  and  hay 
bales  on  top — about  two  weeks  ago?" 

"No;  he  didn't  stop  yere.  I  seed  him  goin'  past,  but  he  never 
stopped." 

Here  Reins  smiled  over  his  cup  of  black  coffee,  and  said:  "Sam's 
a  little  curious  about  some  things." 

Dinner  over,  bill  paid,  the  "high-stepping"  stock  is  buckled  to, 
the  party  are  seated.  Frowzy  passes  up  the  reins,  and  says:  "Well, 
I  hope  you've  got  a  good  thing  out  there;  I'm  half  a  mind  to  come 
out  and  see  you." 

"All  right,  old  man;  I'll  introduce  you  to  Sam."  Then  turning 
toward  the  door  where  Madam  Frowzy  stands,  with  hands  on  hips 
and  arms  akimbo:  "Bye,  bye,  madam;  keep  .'.sharp  lookout  for 
prospectors.  Why,  hello,  eonny;  what  are  you  looking  up  at  me  so 
for?  I'm  not  a  pinto  circus  horse." 

Boy  (near  the  wheel) — "You're  the  fellow  'at  went  past  yer  about 
a  month  ago,  and  called  ma'am  an  old  gal — that's  what  you  are  !" 

"Well,  but  I'll  take  it  all  back,  and  I  wouldn't  have  said  it  if  I 
had  known  you  were  around." 

Away  rolls  the  light  wagon,  as  back  into  the  house  goes  FrOwzy, 
to  smoke  and  stew  over  the  fire,  while  he  considers  the  chance  of 
making  something  for  himself  out  of  the  new  discovery. 

"I  say,  Symanthy,  I'm  a  good  mind  to  go  over  to  that  new 
place." 

"Well,"  snaps  Symanthy,  "if  yer  goin',    you'd   better   go   airly. 


QtAKTZ. 

vFer  if  them  fellers  really  hez  struck  ennything  big'  over  therr,  ther'K 
be  plenty  a-goin'  in  on  the  chances  mighty  soon.  I  woulnn't  wonder 
ef  you'd  see  some  of  the  sharps  a-follerin'  them  fellows  up  afore 
-mornin' " 

"Well,  I  reckon  I'd  best  strike  out  in  the  mornin'.  I  fergot  to  ax 
'em  how  far  it  was,  but  I  kin  foller  in  their  tracks." 

In  the  morning,  early,  Frowzy  is  off  with  saddle-horse  and  pack- 
mules,  for,  although  Frowzy  is  the  very  picture  of  uncombed  and 
smoke-dried  indolence,  and  as  a  general  thing,  goes  about  on  foot 
with  the  dragging  sprawl  of  a  work-ox,  yet  when  it  comes  to  exer- 
tion in  the  saddle,  or  endurance  in  the  hope  of  sudden  gain,  he  is  as 
tough  as  a  lariat. 

The  day  is  bright  and  warm  as  only  some  odd  days  in  Silverado 
can  be,  the  very  essence  of  beautiful  weather  and  pure  air,  for  the 
climate  in  the  State  is  like  the  human  fortune  in  the  State — either 
lovely  and  serene,  with  an  "elevated  goose,"  or  else  detestably  bad 
and  flat  broke. 

The  day  is  splendid,  and  though  the  season  is  winter,  the  dust 
whirls  in  spiral,  electric  columns  along  the  highway  and  rises  in  a 
cloud  about  Bub  and  his  dog  as  they  romp  in  the  road  in  front  of 
Frowzy' s  ranche  house. 

"Mam  !"  shouts  Bub,  "that  'ere  buggy's  a-comin'  again  I  and 
there's  'nuther  dust  acrost  the  valley,  and  I'll  bet  that's  Pap." 

"Well,  it's  a-inost  night,  and  yore  wood  ain't  in  yet!  Ef  enny- 
body's  a-comin' ,  they'll  cum  'thout  your  starin'." 

Nevertheless,  as  to  the  staring,  madam  conies  out  into  the  road  to 
stand  with  Bub  and  the  dog  for  a  prolonged  stare  into  the  valley. 

The  light  wagon  halts  this  time  only  long  enough  to  refresh  man 
and  horse,  and  then  away  toward  the  town;  for  the  eye  of  science 
has  seen  what  the  man  of  science  is  in  haste  to  lay  before  the  men  of 
money  and  speculation.  Time,  time  is  now  the  prime  object,  and 
horse-flesh  is  a  second  consideration;  so,  drive,  driver — send  'em! 
the  love  of  gain  grows  into  a  fever. 

Away  goes  the  vehicle  from  view,  and  the  dust  cloud  of  its  rolling 
settles  down  as  Frowzy  dismounts  at  his  own  door,  where  his  sage- 
brush cherub  and  his  dog  vie  with  each  other  in  jumping  around  for 
purposes  of  undefmable  joy. 

Madam  begins  to  feel  some  thrill   of  anxiety  about  the  new  state 


QUARTZ.  33 

of  affair.s,  and  so,  without  waiting,  she  appears  at  the  door  to  ask, 
"Well,  how  is  it  over  ther  ?" 

Frowzy,  big  with  the  throes  of  a  new  hope,  and;  the  consciousness 
of  new  knowledge,  answers  not,  but  continues  to  unpack  and  strip 
his  animals  in  silence,  save  when  he  says  to  the  dog,  "There,  that'll 
do  now.  Git  down!" 

But  once  the  animals  are  out  to  graze,  and  one  saddle  flung  on 
one  side  of  the  door  and  the  other  on  the  other  side— things  begin , 
thereby,  to  be  made  neat  and  comfortable— he  says,  "Well!"  some 
Western  people  always  say  "well"  to  start  with,  "well,  that's  a 
mighty  big  thing  over  ther.  Things'll  be  a  bilin'  yer  in  a  mighty 
short  time,  ef  ye  hear  my  gentle  voice.  I'm  hungry." 

"I'll  giv  ye  yore  supper  in  a  minet — it's  all  ready.  Did  you  see 
every  show  fur  a  ranche  '?" 

"You  bet  I  did!  I  located  the  purtiest  place  fur  a  ranche  and 
station  you  ever  seed — not  more'n  three  miles  from  where  the  town's 
got  to  be.  That  Purfesser  feller -says  there  ain't  no  better  silver 
mines  in  the  world." 

"Was  they  all  located?" 

"No.  That  feller  as  was  a  talkiii  here  as  they  went  down,  he 
showed  me  wher'  I  could  take  chances  on  an  extension." 

"Didn't  ye  take  it  ?"  asked  madam,  eagerly. 

"Well,  he  said  before  he'd  show  it  to  me  that  I  must  locate,  and 
record  it  as  the  Old  Gal,  or  he  wouldn't  show  it  to  me." 

"Durn  his  imperdent  picter!" 

"Sovl  located  it,  and  it's  the  'Old  Gal;'  and  that  Purfesser  says 
it's  as  good  as  eony  of  'em,  when  it's  opened  once." 

"Don't  it  crop  out  nowheres  along  ?" 

"No;  but  it's  right  on  the  line  o'theni  best  leads — that's  wher'  the 
'Old  Gal'  is.  I  can't  make  out  what  that  feller  wanted  me  to  call  it 
the 'Old  Gal' for." 

"I  know!"  exclaimed  Johnny,  dumping  on  armload  of  fire-wood 
into  a  corner  of  the  cabin,  "it's  'cause  mam  wouldn't  bake  bread  fur 
him  when  he  was  flat  broke !" 

"You,  Johnny!  you  jist  keep  yore  mouth  shet  an'  speak  when 
yore  spoke  to,  will  ye!  You  don't  know  what  yo're  talkin'  about." 

"  Enny  how,"  says  Mr.  Frowzy,  "the  feller  seemed  mighty 
tickled  about  some  durned  thing  or  other  !  But  you  can't  make  him 


34  -j    ,      QUARTZ. 

out  very  easy.  He's  smart — he  is.  He  knows  more  in  a  minit 
about  them  mines  nor  what  that  Purfesser  knows  in  a  day;  but  be 
pertends  to  leave  it  all  to  the  Purfesser.  I  see  him  a-winkin'  at  that 
Sara,  when  Old  Spectacles  and  Big  Words  was  a  settin'  it  in  steep 
on  the  lingo.  He  knows  what  he's  after  ! — that  feller  does." 

With  which  piece  of  wisdom  Frowzy  finished  his  supper  and  com- 
menced cutting  "plug"  to  fill  his  pipe;  after  filling  and  lighting 
which,  he  proceeded  to  puff  awhile  in  that  odorous  smudge  of  si- 
lence which  the  European  man  has  borrowed  from  his  red  brother. 
But  he  soon  broke  forth  again  with  ' c  Symanthy  !  "  That  vigorous 
female  being  in  the  kitchen  said,  "  Well  ?  " 

44  I've  an  idee  I'd  better  take  the  tram  an'  go  back  ther'  and  put 
up  a  cabin.  And  you'd  better  send  over  to  Reese  river  for  yore 
brother  and  his  wife  to  help  you  run  the  house  while  I'm  gone." 

"  Oh,  Bub  an'  me  kin  run  the  house  !  'Taint  worth  while  to  be 
bringin'  people  till  ye  need  'em.  They'd  only  growl  ef  ye  didn't  di- 
vide the  new  lay-out  with  'em.  You  go  ahead;  I'll  run  the  house." 

By  this  time  it  had  grown  dusk  outside,  as  the  shortening  winter 
day  dropped  behind  the  dark  silhouette  of  mountains,  and  the  family 
conversation  was  broken  by  a  strange  voice : 

"  Hillo  !  Haeow  is  it  about  here?"  To  which  Frowzy  shouts- 
back,  "  Aye,  aye  !  Comin' in  a  minit  !  "  And  he  peers  about  by 
the  firelight  for  Cl  that  everlastin',  durned,  old  hat"  tbat  he  never 
can  lay  his  hands  on,  save  when  his  head  is  in  it,  while  Mrs.  Frow- 
zy ventures  to  whisper,  "  That's  a  Yank — you  bet  he's  a-smellin' 
after  them  mines." 

Before  Frowzy  can  find  that  much-maligned  head-gear  the  new  ar- 
rival, or  one  of  them,  has  entered  the  door,  with  tbat  terrible  im- 
patience and  fussy  attention  to  details  peculiar  to  some  of  those  citi- 
zens who  say  the  word,  "  haeow." 

"  I  waant  to  staybil  teow  hawsis  with  yeow." 

'*  All  right,"  returns  Mr.  Frowzy,  by  this  time  under  "  that  hat." 
"  Symanthy,  gimme  the  lantern." 

While  the  horses  are  being  cared  for,  Enoch  rattles  around  as  if 
he  were  helping  to  do  the  work,  though  really  he  knows  nothing 
about  it,  having  been  brought  up  to  oxen  and  a  good  stick  in  the 
State  he  calls  Neow  Hawinsheer.  But  he  keeps  his  tongue  and  wits 
at  work  with  numerous  questions,  such  as:  "  Who  were  the  party 


QUARTZ .  35 

we  met  back  a  piece?"  "Prospectors — ah!  Rich,  I  s'posa?" 
"  Clus  about  here?  Ah — no.  Never  du  strike  anything  near 
hand,  any  one.  Sing'lar,  ain't  it  ?  Quite  so." 

Frowzy,  busy  with  the  team,  answers  as  clearly  as 'he  deems  best; 
but,  as  he  closes  the  stable  door  and  starts,  lantern  in  hand,  for  the 
house,  lazily  asks,  "  Which  way  might  you  be  travelin' — if  it's  a 
fair  question  ?  " 

"Wai,  we've  got  a  little  bizniz  acount  Nowth.  I  fergit  wich  way 
yaeon  eed  the  neaw  mines  were." 

"Like  as  not  I  didn't  say.  I'm  not  clear  which  way  they  are — 
som'ers  out  south-east  tho,'  I  think  they  said.  Do  you  want  supper?" 

"Wai,  no;  we've  got  foud  an'  bsddin5,  thank  ye.  There's  my 
friend  strikin*  a  fire  naeow.  When  we've  eatin*  A  bite  we'll  cum 
over  an'  chat  a  bit,  ef  its  agreeab'l." 

"All  right,"  absents  Mr.  F.,  as  he  blows  out  his  light  and  enters 
his  domicile;  while  Mr.  Enoch  Southchurch  repairs  to  his  wagon,  his 
friend  and  his  supper — at  which  locality  he  says  in  a  low  voice  to  his 
companion:  "Aeour  old  naybor  sez  thet  the  neaw  mines  are  saeouth- 
easterly  from  here." 

"No  odds  what  he  says,"  remarks  the  other  in  a  gruff  voice.  "I 
cain  follow  that  wagon  track  wherever  it  may  go.  If  I  cain'ty  I'll 
go  straight  back  and  die  in  Texas." 

"Jes  so,  Kernil,  I  depend  onyeou  for  that."  What  further  was 
said  out  of  doors  at  the  fire,  or  in  the  house  at  the  other  fire  is  not 
important  to  us,  except  that  Frowzy  hurriedly  told  Synuntby  that 
"them  fellers  is  after  the  new  diggins,  hot-foot." 

To  which  SAmantha  responded,  "I  know'd  it." 

"Yes,"  says  F.,  "they've  mighty  smooth  ephs;  but  they  don't 
pump  me;  not  much." 

Morning  dawns  once  more  upon  the  wide  fields  of  Artemisia,  cold, 
calm  and  clear;  the  blue  smoke  of  the  camp-fire  by  the  roadside 
curls  up  among  the  early  rays  of  the  sun,  and  everything  about  the 
hithertofore  drowsy  rancho  is  made  awake.  The  prospector  has  made 
bis  track  in  the  wilderness,  and  the  keen  and  silent  noses  of  Mam- 
mon's blood-hounds  are  down  upon  the  trail. 

Frowzy  is  away  before  the  dawn;  up  to  the  mountain- slope  of  th* 
foothilh,  to  sesure  his  team — horses — ere  they  cease  to  bask  in  the 


36  QUARTZ. 

fringes  of  the  morning  sun,  warming   away  the  chill   of   night  from 
their  shaggy,  winter  coats. 

The  bacon  in  the  fry-pan  at  the  camp-fire  of  Enoch  Southchurch 
sputters  to  the  tune  of  "Haste  thee,  eon  of  Plymouth  Rock!  God 
helps  those  who  helps  themselves." 

The  "high-stepping  team  of  "liberty-stable  stock"  has  rolled  the 
glittering  wheels  all  night  through  the  glancing  moonbeams  along  the 
road,  toward  the  mining  town,  passing  "old  Dan  Simmins"  with  a 
slight  halt,  long  enough  to  shout  "how-de-do!"  and  bring  "old  Dan'* 
to  the  door,  in  unpresentable  haste,  for  a  brief  chat — and  then  away 
again,  with  his  last,  "Be  good  to  yourselves!  Make  my  regrets  to 
the  Young  Men's  Christian  Associution,  on  account  of  my  absence 
last  Sunday,  and  tell  Gage  to  send  me  two  gallons  of  whisky.  I'm 
about  out.  S'  long,  boys!" 

Away,  again — and  away — till  down  the  mountain  road,  heralded 
by  the  golden  glow  that  tips  the  topmost  peaks  with  new  born  morn- 
ing's flush,  into  the  busy  mountain  town,  along  whose  plank  side- 
walks the  heavy  boots  of  the  earliest  risers  thump,  thump,  thump, 
the  light  wagon  rolls  and  ceases  to  roll.  The  party  leap  out  as  the 
horses  snort  that  grateful  recognition  of  home  wherewith  the  faithful 
servant  expresses  his  satisfaction. 

And  now,  as  Frowzy  says  it,  things  begin  "to  bile."  The  assayer's 
fire  glows  a  white-fever-heat  as  it  leaps  and  licks  the  precious  ore  in 
presence  of  the  anxious  eyes  that  watch  the  boiling-pot.  Deftly  the 
assayer  handles  his  tongs,  coyly  he  toys  with  the  blistering  glow, 
and  then  carefully  pours,  pounds,  batters,  rolls  and  weighs  the 
"button." 

Eureka  !  millions  of  earth's  treasures  loom  up  before  the  eye  of 
speculation.  The  news  flies;  men  gather  011  street  corners,  in  stores, 
in  saloons,  everywhere,  to  inspect  samples  of  rock  and  hear  the  story 
of  the  new  discovery;  while  the  prosp  ctor,  his  pocket  lined  with 
"eagles,"  slouches  with  a  newly,  well-dressed,  easy  grace  along  the 
polished  board  that  bears  the  glasses  iu  front  of  the  pretty  young 
man  whose  back  hair  shines  in  the  big  mirror  in  all  the  glory  of  ton- 
sorial  art,  and  slapping  his  "heavy  sorrel"*  on  the  counter,  says, 
"tlomfi  up,  boys,  come  up." 

*Twenty  dollar  gold  pieces. 


CHAPTER  TWO. 

SPIRITS. 

The  discovery  and  location  of  new  silver-miuing  centers  in  the  wild 
semi-desert  regions  of  North  America  will  soon  be  a  matter  of  the 
past;  but  it  was  once  a  very  exciting  business.  First  there  was  the 
desert  valley  and  the  wild,  rocky,  rugged  mountains;  then  acroes  the 
valley  came  the  earliest* 'prospector,"  making  his  devious  way  among 
the  "sage-brush;"  guided  by  no  previous  track  in  the  dry  gravelly 
soil;  steered  solely  by  the  contour  of  the  surrounding  mountains; 
riding  on  his  mule  or  wiry,  wild  broncho  and  driving  before  him,  or 
leading  behind  him,  'the  grunting  animal  upon  whose  back  aie  girted 
and  corded  the  needed  bedding,  food  and  implements  for  preliminary 
mining  purposes.  It  is  a  serious  and  a  silent  procession  under  the 
hot  sun  of  a  summer-day,  or  the  cool  star-light  of  night  when  the 
shadows  of  the  pointed  mountains  fall  dark  and  ong  across  the  arid 
waste,  or  in  the  wind-driven  snows  of  altitudinous  winter.  Jf  the 
search  is  successful  and  the  winner  crowned  with  reward,  then  the 
single  track  of  the  prospector  becomes  a  beaten  trail,  like  an  ashen- 
colored  thread  stretching  from  civilization  toward  the  unknown;  the 
trail  in  time  gives  way  to  the  wagon-road  on  which  the  slow-moving 
ox  bends  his  unwilling,  calloused  neck  to  the  inspiring  needs  of  spec- 
ulative industry;  soon  to  be  followed  by  the  more  aristocratic  mule 
marching  in  silent,  solemn,  long-eared  processions  of  dust-covered 
pageantry;  and  the  mule  at  length  to  be  followed  by  the  swifter 
whirling  stage-coach  team  with  its  cloud  of  dust  and  its  crowded 
passengers. 

People — mostly,  if  not  entirely,  bearded  boisterous  adventurers — 
take  to  the  new  road  and  flock  into  the  new  mining  camp  which  is 
hidden  away  on  the  slope  of  a  canon,  or  at  the  water  giving  head  of  a 
ravine.  Heavy  loads  of  lumber  for  house-building  underlying  an 
imposed  stratum  of  merchandiEe  unload  under  the  direction  of  the 
"gentleman  from  Judea;"  while  the  manager  and  dispenser  of  alco- 
holic amusements  erects  his  tent  and,  behind  a  rough  board,  begins 
the  grave  exercise  of  polishing  a  tumbler  with  a  napkin;  the  board- 


38  QUARTZ. 

ing  house,  the  lodging  house,  the  needed  mechanical  houses  and  all 
other  hocuses  arise  in  so  short  a  time  that  the  aspect  of  the  scene 
changes,  as  if  by  magic,  from  all  that  make  the  irksorneness  of  soli- 
tude to  the  moving,  shifting,  humming,  habitable  picture  of  energetic 
industry.  Thus  has  been  initiated,  under  varying  aspects,  that  great 
aggregation  of  representative  commonwealths  commonly  called  the 
United  States  of  North  America.  Later  in  the  years  comes  the 
ready  school-master  to  his  appointed  task;  still  later  the  church  build- 
ing, with  its  echoing  bell  in  pointed  spire  with  weather-vane  a-top 
to  show  how  blow  the  winds  of  Heaven  and  which  way  waft  the 
clouds. 

It  might  be  a  useful,  certainly  a  curious,  study  to  find  out  how 
much  alcohol  in  its  various  drinkable  forms — mostly  whieky,  how- 
ever— has  had  to  do  with  the  advancement  of  civilization  and  the 
establishment  of  good  government;  for  it  seems  to  be  a  fact,  that 
the  drinker  of  the  more  fiery  potations,  however  much  they  may 
have  damaged  themselves,  have  always  been  the  staunchest  creators 
and  supporters  of  good  government.  The  maxim  about  "the  sober 
second  thought"  implies  that  the  previous  thought  was  not  sober 
and,  therefore,  drunk. 

Is  the  strong-drinker's  liking  for  good  and  free  government  the  re- 
morseful expression  over  the  ruin  of  his  hearth-store  felicity  ?  Let 
that  pass;  it  is  an  open  question;  but  there  is  no  question  that  in  a 
new  silver-mining  camp  the  political  and  social  center  is  the  alcoholic 
saloon;  neither  is  there  any  question  that  in  the  camp  whereof  this 
vivacious  history  treats  one  Alexander  Crowder  kept  the  "Head 
Quarters."  It  has  often  been  remarked,  by  the  uninitiated,  that  it 
looks  singular  to  see  so  many  of  the  largest  and  most  able-bodied  of 
our  fellow  citizens  engaged  in  the  light-handed  avocation  of  filling 
fluids  into  bottles  and  glasses;  but  such  persons  should  be  informed 
that  the  saloon-keeper  is  liable  to  have  heavier — vastly  heavier — 
work  upon  bis  strong  hands.  He  may  not  often  need  the  heft  of  his 
heavy  shoulders,  but  when  he  does  need  it  he  needs  it  very  much. 
Yet  there  are  retail  alcoholic  dispersers  on  the  Pacific  slope — life-long 
veterans  at  the  bar— who  have  never  laid  a  hand  harehly  on  any 
mortal.  These  be  the  few  men  of  high  administrative  ability — 
stranded  statesmen  wasted  by  the  wayside;  probably  the  lineal  de- 
scendants of  the  c 'publicans  and  sinners"  with  whom  Christ  the 


QUAKTZ.  89 

Saviour  used  to  talk,  or,  at  least  so  it  reads,  was  accused  of  it  by 
the  righteous  Pharisees;  and  of  such  was  Alexander  Crowder,  formerly 
of  various  other  localities,  but  now  a  resident  of  the  new  and  thriving 
camp  yclept  Mountain  Brow. 

At  the  Head  Quarters  was  held  the  first  meeting  to  raise  a  fund  to 
institute  a  school  and  prepare  the  way  toward  establishing  that  insti- 
tution in  a  permanent  school-house;  because,  by  the  school  laws 
passed  by  the  keen  legislators  of  the  State  of  Silverado  no  public 
money  for  school  purposes  could  be  obtained  by  any  camp  until  the 
"said  camp  shall  institute  and  support  a  school,  of  not  less  than  ten 
pupils  of  the  proper  age  (exclusion  of  Indians  not  twenty),  for  a 
period  of  time  not  less  than  three  months,"  etc.  At  the  Head  Quar- 
ters were  taken  the  initial  steps  towards  providing  the  camp — the 
new  town  or  city  in  mining  parlance  is  always  "the  camp" — with  a 
supply  of  good  water  and  for  the  creation  of  a  volunteer  fire  company, 
of  which  latter,  by  the  way ,  Alexander  Orowder  was  unanimously 
elected  foreman. 

At  the  Head  Quarters  the  Central  Committee  of  both  our  great 
political  parties  met — each  committee  on  a  different  day  in  the  week, 
however — to  plant  the  seeds  of  national  dispute  and  presidential 
fervor  along  the  advancing  highway  of  "our  glorious  institution^." 
Here  the  night-flying  orator  was  wont  to  point  out  the  dangerous 
rocks  of  national  navigation  in  tones  of  unmistakable  alarm  supple- 
mented by  the  soothing  scintillations  of  patriotic  promise  and  political 
hope.  Whoop  la  !  The  stars  and  stripes  shall  wave  over  a  country 
that  must  be  saved.  The  little  springs  of  far-off  mountain-bowed  po- 
litical power  shall  borrow  the  white-souled  purity  of  the  shining 
snows,  and  in  the  glad  dance  of  the  sparkling  fluid  follow  the  music 
of  the  mountain  stream  down  and  away  to  where  the  great  river  of 
our  political  power  bears  upon  its  bosom  the  commerce  of  a  world 
and  the  hopes  of  all  mankind.  (Cheers,  but  no  note  taken  of  the 
miner  who  mutters,  "'cept  the  dam  Chinaman.") 

At  the  Head  Quarters — which  gradually  come  to  be  known  as 
"Crowders" — was  preached  the  first  sermon  from  any  Protestant 
preacher  at  Mountainbrow;  though  the  Catholic  Padre  bad  been 
around  first — as  be  usually  is  in  such  places — to  look  after  his 
flock  and  get  the  Church's  dutiful  "divvy"  on  theyoung'prosperity. 
The  reason  the  Protestant  preferred  to  preach  at  Crowder's  was 


40  QUARTZ. 

partly  owing  to  the  fact  that  the  Head  Quarters  was  the  building 
in  camp  best  adapted  to  congregational  purposes;  but  mostly,  it 
was  surmised,  because  Crowdev,  out  of  the  abundance  o.  his 
mountain  experience,  was  too  wise  to  permit  the  smaller  games  of 
gambling  to  be  carried  on  under  his  roof.  He  rather  contented 
himself  with  private  poker  and  faro  rooms  at  the  back  end,  with 
billiards  in  all  styles,  in  the  bar-room  and  social  cribbage  in  the 
corners.  So,  when  Brother  Magath  dropped  into  the  Head  Quarters 
on  a  wintry  Sunday  forenoon,  the  house  was  full,  the  billiard 
balls  clicked  their  way  through  the  pool-pine,  the  game-keepers 
cried  the  score,  the  glasses  clinked  at  the  bar  from  time  to  time 
as  the  hearty  "here's  to  us"  preceded  the  usual  imbibation:  and 
the  string  band  of  three,  with  the  cornet  player,  behind  the  piano 
and  the  heavy  German  pianist  (male,  of  course)  discoursed  musical 
gems  from  the  composers  of  all  lands.  The  musicians  were  pres- 
ent out  of  regard  (financial)  to  the  day  of  the  week.  Sunday  is  a 
fine  large  day  all  over  Silverado. 

Upon  this  scene  entered  Brother  Magatb,  and  modestly  waiting 
for  an  opportune  moment  to  catch  Mr.  Crowder's  ear  approached 
the  highly  polished  bar-board  in  front  of  that  worthy  fluidical  dis- 
penser who  instinctively  looked  the  preacher  interrogatively  in  the 
eye  and  "set  up"  a  glass  tumbler. 

"Ah,  no-ah  !  Not  anything  to  drink;  thank  you." 

Growler  put  out  the  cigar- box. 

"Thank  you;  but  I'm  not  a  smoker.  Excuse  me;  but  I  merely 
wished  to  talk  to  you  in  private  a  moment." 

"Want  to  strike  me  for  a  piece?"  and  Crowder  opened  his 
money  drawer.  "Broke,  I  'spose  !  How  much  ?" 

"No,   sir,  I  want  no  money." 

"Well,  what  do  ye  want  ?     Spit  it  out." 

"I  want  permission  to  preach  a  sermon  in  this  room  this  after- 
noon at  2  o'clock  sharp.  That's  all  I  want." 

"Want  to  preach  h'yer?" 

"Yes,  sir!" 

"Well.  That'll  depend  on  what  the  boys  say.  I've  no  objec- 
tion, myself." 

"Would  you  be  good  enough  to  announce  it  to  them,  and  let 
us  hear  what  they  say  about  it  ?" 


QUARTZ.  41 

"Well,  I'm  not  much  on  the  announce — but  Til  try  it  a  whack," 
— he  walked  to  the  outer  end  of  bis  long  bar  and  in  a  big  voice 
said — "See  yer,  boys.  I  want  ye  to  lissen." 

The  games  and  the  noise  consequent  upon  them  gradually  sub- 
sided. Pool-players  dropped  the  butts  of  their  cues  to  the  floor 
and  stood  at  rest — the  music  of  the  band  lapsed  into  silence. 

"This  gent  wants  to  preach  and  pays  us  the  compliment  by 
sayin'  its  the  most  respectable  place  in  camps  for  his  business; 
an'  I've  told  him  I'd  leave  it  to  you  fellers." 

"When  d's  he  want  to  preach?  Bight  away,  now?"  said  a 
tall  cue-holder. 

"No;  this  afternoon  at  2  o'clock.  What  d'ye  all  say?  Preach 
or  no  preach  ?" 

"Preach — of  course.  D'ye  'spose  we're  dam  heathens  ?"  gaid 
one. 

"Preach  !  why  cert'nly,"  said  another. 

"Of  course,"  assented  another. 

Brother  Magath  whispered  to  Crowder. 

"But  he  wants  ye  all  to  attend.     Will  ye  do  it?" 

"You  bet  we  will,"  said  the  tall  man  turning  to  take  the  shot  he 
had  omitted,  and  added,  "give  him  a  drink  and  charge  it  to  me." 

When  Brother  Magath  appeared  in  the  Head  Quarters,  promptly 
at  2  o'clock,  P.  M.,  he  found  the  billiard  tables  draped  in  their  white 
night-clothes,  the  bar  and  its  bottle-holding  shelves  clothed  in  similar 
attire,  the  musicians  dispersed  and  the  audience  silently,  though  a 
little  uneasily,  waiting  for  him.  He  took  his  stand  behind  the  piano 
using  that  musical  furniture  as  a  sacred  desk,  and  thereon,  as  a 
"sport"  phrased  it,  "spread  his  tricks  to  buck  against  the  devil" — 
which  "tricks"  consisted  of  a  Bible,  a  hymn-book  and  a  white  linen 
pocket-handkerchief.  Then  first,  as  was  his  custom, he  read  a  hymn, 
but  before,  the  reading  he  remarked: 

"Gentlemen,  among  my  misfortunes,  one  of  the  greatest  is  that  I 
have  no  ear  for  melody  and  no  talent  for  singing;  I  shall  therefore, 
be  compelled  to  call  upon  any  person  who  can  sing  to  raise  the  tune 
for  the  lines  I  am  about  to  read. 

"Am  la  soldier  of  the  Cross,  * 

A  follower  of  the  Lamb  ? 


QUABTZ, 

And  shall  I  fear  to  own  his  cause, 
Or  blush  to  speak  his  name  ? 


Are  there  no  foes  for  me  to  face; 

Must  I  not  stem  the  flood  V 
Is  this  vile  world  a  friend  to  grace 

To  help  me  on  to  God  ?j 


Sure  I  must  fight  if  I  would  reign ; 

Increase  my  courage  Lord; 
I'll  bear  the  toil,  endure  the  pain , 

Supported  by  the  word." 

"Part  of  the  seven-hundredth  hymn;  common  metre;  please  sing/' 

There  was  a  deep  and  depressing  silence  that  followed  the  spirited 
reading  of  these  martial  lines  broken  at  first  by  no  sound  save  the 
low  whisper  in  which  one  miner  conveyed  his  idea  into  the  ear  of  an- 
other, thus: 

"I  think  the  parson's  dead  game — there's  a  heap  o'  sand  in  the 
hymn." 

"Cannot  some  one  raise  the  tune  ?  Surely  there  are  several  per- 
sons in  this  room  whose  early  training  and  musical  talent  fits  them  to 
sing  these  sacred  lines." 

"What  is  the  tune?" 

"Unfortunately  I  cannot  remember  that  either,  but  it  is  a  very 
common  one,"  and  still  he  stood  with  his  book  in  his  hand  open  be- 
fore him  as  if  supplicating  some  one  to  come  forward  and  take  it  away; 
but  the  tune  did  not  arise. 

"Where's  them  doggonned  musicians  gone  to  ?  They'd  ort  to  be 
able  to  h'ist  'er  up,"  said  a  new  voice. 

"What  duz  a  dura  Dutch  musical  cuss  know  about  hymn-singiu'?" 
exclaimed  another. 

Here  the  front  door  of  the  saloon  was  thrown  open,  wafting  into 
the  room  a  sharp  breath  of  the  winter  air: 

"Hello  !  There  comes  Wash  White  an'  he's  a  reg'lar  camp-meet- 
in'  psalmist.  Yer  Wash,  come  in  an'  h'ist  the  tune." 

Wash  took  a  hasty  stare  about  the  ro^ni  as  he  closed  the  door  be- 
hind him  and  aslfed: 


QLAETZ.  43 

"What the  hell's  up?", 

"H-u-u-s-sh.     This's  meetin'." 

'^'Miner's  meeting  ?" 

"No;  prar  meetin*.  Church.  Religion.  Ye  dam  fool,  don't  ye 
know  nuthiu'  pious  !" 

"I-o-h.  Whew  !"  responded  Wash  as  he  eyed  the  preacher  and 
took  in  the  invitation, 

"Yes,  my  friend,"  said  Parson  Magatb  still  holding  the  open  book 
in  his  hand,  "we  desire  to  sing  a  few  lines  pieparatory  to  a  continu- 
ance of  Divine  worship  and  we  are  waiting  for  some  one  to  voice  the 
music. 

"What  is  the  hymn  \"  asked  Wash. 

"Am  I  a  soldier  of  the  cross,"  began  the  preacher  to  read,  but 
was  interrupted  by  Wash  continuing — 

"A  follower  of  the  Lamb  ? 
And  shall  I  fear  to  own  his  cause 
Or  blush  to  speak  his  name  ? 

— o'  course  I  can  sing  them  lines  like  a  licensed  exhorter.  I  was 
brought  up  on  that  music.  My  ole  dad  used  to  fold  his  arms  of  a 
Sunday  morning  an*  walk  up  and  down  singing  them  lines  till  hell 
howled  an'  Satan  shook  in  his  irons.  But  if  I  start  the  tune  I  want 
all  hands  to  chip  in  an'  jine  the  uproar — an' I  don't  want  no  squ^akm' 
nor  no  half-mouthed  mumblin'.  Go  ahead,  parson;  line  'er  out." 

Brother  Magath  once  again  read  the  initial  stanza  Wash,  with  a 
voice  trained  from  infancy  to  "revival"  airs,  launched  boldly  out 
upon  the  melodious  stream,  and  at  first,  was  assisted  in  a  wavering 
way;  but  at  length  the  crowd,  seeing  and  hearing  that  he  was  fully 
equal  to  the  occasion,  joined  in  with  a  will  and  boomed  the  lines, 
couplet  at  a  time,  as  Brother  Magath,  smiling  blandly,  delivered 
them.  For  up  and  down  the  hills  the  echoes  sped  bearing  with  them 
the  true  spirit  of  the  Soldiers  of  the  Cross.  It  was  an  able-bodied 
noise  not  devoid  of  a  rude  spirit  of  harmony. 

After  the  singing  Brother  Magath  nodded  his  thanks  to  Mr.  White 
and  proceeded  with  the  subsequent  spirituality,  the  general  tenor  of 
which  was  that,  whatever  might  be  a  man  or  woman's  place  in  this 
life  it  was  a  duty,  and  ought  to  be  a  pride  and  a  pleasure,  for  such 
person  to  do  that  duty  boldly,  cheerfully,  respectfully  and  firmlj7  for 


44  QUAETZ. 

righteousness  sake;  "nor  God,  nor  man,  nor  devil  loves  the  coward 
or  the  quitter." 

"Them's  my  sentiments/'  said  Mr.  Crowder,  and  Brother  Magath 
wound  up  the  exercises  with  a  fervent  short  prayer. 

"Three  cheers  for  the  parson,  Hip,  hip,  Hurray !"  and  the 
cheers  were  given  with  a  will,  while  Crowder  disrobed  the  bar,  the 
bottles  and  glasses. 

"Come  down,"  exclaimed  a  short  active  man.  "Come  down 
handsome  in  the  contribution  box/1  and  he  went  about  through  the 
crowd  extending  his  hat  to  everybody.  "'Taint  no  real  genoowine 
church  'thout  a  kerleckshun.  Parsons  kaint  live  on  chin  enny  niore'n 
other  folks.  Come  down  !"  and  while  the  hat  grew  heavy  with 
silver,  the  imbibations  went  on  all  around,  and  in  the  midst  Brother 
Magath  was  receiving  hand-shaken  congratulations,  also  refusing 
numerous  invitations  to  participate. 

"There  she  is,  parson" — said  the  volunteer  collector — "salt  'er 
down/'  and  he  placed  his  heavy  hat  on  the  nearest  billiard  table. 

"Gentlemen,  this  is,  indeed,  very  kind  of  you  and  I  hope  God 
will  bless  this  gift  in  my  hands  to  his  own  great  uses;  and  I  pray 
that  you  may  gather  again,  tenfold,  this  bread  thrown  upon  the 
waters,"  all  the  while  as  he  talked,  loading  his  light  pockets  with 
heavy  coin.  Then  at  last,  he  politely  returned  the  hat  to  its  owner, 
bid  bis  unique  congregation  an  effusive  farewell  and  went  out  upon 
his  way  rejoicing. 

Again  the  games  went  forward,  the  instrumental  music  resumed 
ita  sway  and,  sorry  to  say  it,  Wash  White,  proud  of  his  opportune 
assistance  was  fast  approaching  the  meandering  edge  of  inebriation. 
And  so  ended  the  first  lesson.  Were  these  seeds  of  salvation,  sown 
by  the  wayside,  lost — all  lost?  Who  shall  say?  Is  the  vim  of 
good  in  the  evil  of  Nazareth  worked  out  ?  Qmen  sabe  ? 


CHAPTER  THREE. 

AT   CROWDERS. 

I  was  sitting  in  the  saloon  to-day  reading  the  papers  when  a  man 
about  fifty  years  old — a  heavy  man,  stout,  stooped  and  hard-handed, 
came  in  with  a  kind  of  weaving,  slouchy  gait,  having  hie  hat  in  one 
hand  and  an  empty  smoke-pipe  in  the  other.  He  stopped  in  the 
middle  of  the  floor,  gave  a  sort  of  goggle-eyed  gaze  around  the  room, 
swung  his  body  with  the  sweep  of  a  weak  old  willow  in  the  wind, 
slapped  his  hat  on  his  head  pretty  well  over  his  eyes,  put  the  stem 
end  of  the  empty,  short  pipe  into  his  mouth  and  pushing  his  hands 
down  into  his  breeches  pockets,  took  a  weaving  step  forward  and 
said: 

"H're  ye,  Crowder,  old  b-hoy!5' 

Crowder  stood  behind  his  bar  with  a  napkin  polishing  that  perpet- 
ual tumbler,  but  made  no  reply. 

T  The  man  took  another  nearing  step  forward  toward  the  bar,   paus- 
ed and  said: 

"1  say,  h're  ye,  Orowder?  Can  you  s — peek — t — feller?  A^hVr 
putt-in'  on  dog  wi'  me  for?" 

"How  are  you,  Daniel!"  said  Crowder.  "you  look  sleepy,  you'd 
better  go  and  take  a  big  sleep." 

"A'r  right.      I'm  go'n  to  whe'r  ge'r  ready,  no — t  b'fore." 

"Better  take  a  spin  around  the  square,  then,"  suggested  Crowd- 
er, still  polishing  the  tumbler. 

"No  z-sir,"  and  proceeding  to  pull  up  a  chair  by  my  side,  he 
added:  "I'm  goner  talk  sense  to  the  old  boss  here." 

"That's  a  man  of  family,  Dan.  If  you  want  to  talk  some  one  to 
death,  go  hunt  up  a  single  man.  What'll  his  wife  say  when  she 
sees  his  corpse?" 

Dan  saw  the  old  joke  even  through  the  fumes  in  his  brain,  and, 
looking  at  me,  smiled  one  of  those  twisted  smiles  which  are  not  to  be 
described.  Then  he  sat  down  on  the  chair,  threw  his  hat  on  the 
floor  at  his  feet,  commenced  in  a  fumbling  way  to  fill  his  pipe,  and 
said:  "Crowder's  g-ome!  Knows  been  on  a  bu9t!  A — as  all  right. 
Crowder 's  'noil  friend — use't  wore  'gether  in  'noil  TVollomme." 


-V1-/.--'  —  ' 

46  v     jf  .  >        QUARTZ. 

While  Daniel  was  fishing  up  from  the  depths  of  his  vest  pocket 
tobacco  fine-cut,  pinch  by  pinch,  between  his  work -calloused  thumb 
and  finger,  and  boozily  crowding  it  down  into  his  pipe-bowl,  nothing 
was  said;  but  Crowder  looked  at  me  then  at  Daniel,  as  much  as  to 
inquire  if  I  was  being  badly  annoyed.  Seeming  to  see  that  as  yet  1 
was  not,  he  continued  to  gaze  out  in  the  sunny  street,  as  he  ntood 
erect  with  that  ever-active  tumbler  and  napkin  in  hand. 

Daniel,  after  finally  filling  his  pipe,  hunted  throughout  all  his 
pockets  twice  over,  and  then  said  to  me:  "Boss,  got'r  match?''  I 
gave  him  a  lucifer  match.  "Boss,  you're  a  gem-man!  Don't  put  on 
dog."  Then  fixing  the  match  perpendicularly  between  his  thumb  and 
finger,  he  raised  his  right  thigh  at  an  angle  of  forty -five  degrees, 
and  rapidly  drew  the  match  from  the  hip  forward  toward  the  knee 
over  the  woolen  pantaloons,  until  it  snapped  and  blazed  into  a  light, 
as  he  brought  it  around  with  a  single  motion  immediately  over  the 
tobacco  in  the  pipe  that  was  in  his  mouth.  Silently  puffing  away 
until  his  dim  senses  were  satisfied  with  the  result,  he  proceeded  to 
address  me  upon  the  subject  that  was  uppermost  in  his  mind.  Why 
he  should  have  desired  to  tell  me  what  he  did,  seeing  that  I  was  a 
stranger  to  him,  I  know  not.  Who,  indeed,  can  know  the  uncon- 
Hciouy  impulse  that  intoxication  starts  in  the  brain?  Disrobed  of  its 
inebriate  blur  here  is  what  be  said  to  me: 

"Yes,  Crowder  knows  Old  Dan  !  We  used  to  work  together  and 
cabin  together  in  California.  The  last  place  we  were  at  was  in  Tu- 
olumne.  From  there  we  came  over  in  the  Washoe  excitement  to 
Yirginia  City,  in  Nevada  Territory,  and  that's  where  Crowder  left, 
me  and  went  to  selling  whisky.  Crowder  can  sell  whisky,  he  can; 
but  I  can't.  What  do  you  suppose  is  the  reason  I  can't  sell  whisky, 
eh,  boss?" 

"Well,  really,  I  can  hardly  say." 

"Did  you  ever  read  Shakespeare,  boss?" 

"Yes,  in  a  scattering  way." 

"Look  here,"  said  he,  in  a  mock  dramatic  style,  pointing  first  at 
himself,  then  at  Crowder,  "upon  this  picture  and  this  !  That's  the 
reason  I  can't  sell  whisky." 

"I  think  I  see  it." 

"All  right,  boss  !  I  left  Virginia  City  and  went  north  to  Montana; 
and  kepi  going  north  until  I  could  nearly  see  the  top  of  the  north 


QUARTZ.  47 

pole.  Then  I  roamed  around  again  and  got  away  down  into  Arizona, 
and  New  Mexico;  and  from  there  went  to  New  Granada  in  South 
America,  where  there  is  more  trees  and  roots  and  vines  and  bushes 
and  brambles  and  snakes  and  bats  and  spiders  and  bugs  and  things 
than  you  ever  saw  to  the  acre  in  any  country — and  rains;  je-e- 
whillikens  !  Why,  it  rains  there  down  and  up  and  cross-legged. 

Then  from  there,  I  worked  away  further  down  into  South  America 
and  back  again,  like  a  walking  bag  o'  bones,  into  California.  But 
California  wasn't  like  home  any  more,  so  I  weaved  my  way  back 
to  Washoe  to  hunt  up  my  old  paid .  I  was  flat  broke,  and  wanted 
to  strike  him  for  a  stake.  Crowder  always  opens  out  when  I  strike 
him  for  a  piece.  Eh,  Crowder,  ain't  that  so?" 

"Yes,  Daniel,  such  is  the  fact  so  long  as  I've  got  a  cent." 

"But  my  old  pard  was  gone.  I  wasn't  able  to  work  a  lick;  so  I 
rustled  aronnd  among  the  ole-time  boys,  and  they  came  out,  and 
kept  a-coming  out  to  me,  until  I  got  onto  my  working  pins  again; 
got  a  job— saved  up,  paid  'em  all  back  and  put  out  again .  And 
ncrw  I've  worked  round  through  Colorado,  part  of  Arizona,  and  all 
of  eastern  Nevada,  and  here  I  am,  flat  broke." 

"What  was  the  point  in  all  this  traveling  ?" 

"Gold,  sir,  gold.  Placer  diggings,  with  gold  in  'em.  Ah,  God! 
give  me  once  more  the  old  days  of  placer  diggings  !  I  don't  care  if  I 
find  it  on  the  middle  line  of  the  equator,  where  the  sun  will  cook 
eggs  on  the  top  of  a  fellow's  hat — or  I  don't  care  where  it  is.  That's 
all  I  ask — just  once  more." 

"How  does  it  come  that'  you  didn't  get  a  better  advantage  of  it 
when  you  had  it?" 

"Boss,  that's  what  my  lawyer  called  a  leading  question.  Ain't 
it  the  scripture  says  'every  soul  knowethits  own  sorrow?' " 

"I  think  is  is  in  the  scriptures,  or  ought  to  be,"  said  I. 

By  this  time,  he  began  to  speak  much  more  plainly,  and  to  the 
point.  He  put  bis  pipe  into  his  pocket,  and  throwing  his  legs  over 
the  arm  of  the  chair  that  was  next  to  mine,  he  asked  me : 

"Did  you  ever  look  into  the  face  of  twelve  mea  for  three  days  in- 
side of  a  court-house,  while  a  lot  of  lawyers  were  pulling  and  hauling 
over  a  case,  and  your  own  life  was  the  interesting  subject  of  discus- 
eion  ?" 

"No;  I  can't  say  that  I  have." 


48  QUARTZ. 

"Did  you  ever  marry  a  girl  in  the  old  States,  and  coine  to  Cali- 
fornia, and  work  in  the  water,  underground,  and  every  way,  like  a 
wild  working  machine,  to  make  money  for  her  and  one  little  gal 
baby;  then  be  tried  on  a  d — m  false  charge  of  murder,  and  get  clear 
by  spending  half  you'd  made;  and  go  home  with  the  other  half  to 
her,  only  to  find  out  that  she  had  thro  wed  off  on  you,  and  that  the 
law  back  there  wouldn't  give  you  your  own  child  ?" 

There  was  a  fierceness  in  his  expression  that  drove  away  entirely 
the  drunken  look,  as  he  paused  in  his  link  of  interrogation. 

"No,  my  friend,  I'm  thankful  to  say  that  I  have  never  passed 
through  such  a  trial  as  that,"  I  replied. 

"Well,  you  may  be  thankful.  Fve  gone  through  all  of  that. 
Ain't  that  so,  Crowder?" 

The  saloon-keeper,  as  business  was  dull  during  the  sunny  summer 
afternoon,  leaning  on  his  white-shirted  elbows  over  the  counter,  pa- 
tiently watching  Dan  in  his  increasing  earnestness,  went  back  to  his 
tumblers,  simply  saying,  "Such  are  the  facts,  Daniel." 

"Now,  boss,  there  is  nothing  underhand  about  me.  I'm  up  and 
up,  on  the  square,  all  the  time.  I  never  cheated  any  man,  or  woman, 
or  child,  or  Indian — not  even  a  Chinaman.  I  never  went  forward  to 
hunt  a  fight,  nor  backward  to  get  out  of  one;  and  I  don't  think  that 
I  ever  thro  wed  off  on  a  pard ,  or  left  a  debt  behind  me  in  all  my 
travels  that  I  didn't  pay.  How's  those  statements,  Crowder,  are 
they  true  ?" 

"The  man  who  says  they  are  not  true  is  no  friend  of  mine,  Daniel." 

"There,  now,  boss!  I'm  drunk,  you  see,  but  he  ain't;  and  he'll 
tell  you  if  I  strike  the  wrong  lead,  or  go  off  on  a  spur.  Now,  what  I 
want  to  know,  and  want  you  to  tell  me  if  you  know,  is,  why  it  is, 
when  a  man  wants  to  do  the  square  thing,  and  does  about  do  it,  that 
he  has  such  infernal  luck?" 

"Indeed  it  is  hard  to  say.  Perhaps  you,  being  strong  yourself, 
were  severe  upon  others  who  were  weak-spirited,  and  sternly  de- 
manded of  them  to  stand  up  against  all  odds  when  they  were  not 
able,  and  sneered  at  them  for  weaklings,  when  they  failed  in  courage 
and  endurance,  thereby  raising  up  against  you  numerous  weak  but 
silent  and  busy  enemies.  Such  things  have  been,  and  such  may  be 
your  case." 

"No;  I  think  you  must  out  there   boss,  that's  too   preachery.     I 


QUARTZ.  49 

never  meddled  with  other  people.     I  went  about  my  own  business." 

"  Very  true,  no  doubt;  and  you,  perhaps,  left  all  other  people, 
save  a  very  few,  to  think  they  might  go  to  hell  for  all  you  cared. 
Whereupon,  these  small  people  hunted  for  the  weak  place  in  the 
strong  man's  arme,  and  found  it;  because  there  always  is  a  weak 
place." 

He  threw  his  legs  off  the  arm  of  the  chair  and  stretched  them  out 
to  full  length,  with  his  boot  heels  resting  on  the  floor,  reached  down 
for  his  hat,  put  the  hat  on  his  head  over  his  eyes,  put  his  hands  deep 
into  his  breeches  pockets,  and  plowing  his  heels  along  the  floor 
slipped  as  far  down  into  his  chair  as  its  form  would  permit,  and  in 
that  posture  remained  silent  for  some  moments,  while  Crowder,  with 
oae  elbow  on  the  end  of  the  bar-board,  partly  pursued  a  newspaper, 
but  mostly  eyed  his  friend. 

I  was  about  to  resume  my  reading,  when  he  threw  one  of  his  legs 
over  the  other,  with  a  heavy  thump  of  his  heel  on  the  floor;  then, 
thrusting  his  hand  into  his  breast  coat-pocket,  he  drew  forth  a  letter, 
handed  it  to  me  without  moving  his  hat  off  his  eyes  or  further  chang- 
ing position,  and  said: 

"Read  that  out  loud  to  Crowder  and  me." 

Baltimore,  Md.,  July  10,  1864. 

MY  DEAR  PAPA:  Oh,  my  dear  papa,  mother  is  dead,  and  I  am 
living  with  uncle  John  !  Mother  died  about  a  year  ago,  as  I  wrote 
to  you  about,  but  never  got  any  answer,  and  her  husband  has  gone 
away  in  the  war,  and  uncle  John  says  he  thinks  he  is  dead,  too,  for 
he  saw  it  in  a  newspaper  that  a  man  by  the  same  name  was  killed 
in  Luray  Valley.  Fni  working  along  with  Mrs.  Ellicott  and  her 
daughter  Mary,  making  soldier  clothes  at  the  factory.  Uncle  John 
was  thrown  out  of  work  at  Harper's  Ferry  when  the  arsenals  were 
burnt  down,  and  he  has  been  working  wherever  he  could  get  work, 
mostly  in  the  car  factory  for  the  Baltimore  and  Ohio,  but  he  is  going 
now  to  Pittsburg  to  work  on  government  wagons,  because  the  rail- 
road is  all  torn  up  by  the  war,  and,  oh,  dear  papa,  Uncle  John 
is  poor  now  and  I  will  have  to  go  with  him,  or  else  stay  here  with 
strangers.  Do  let  me  come  and  live  with  you.  I  have  got  fifty 
dollars  saved  up  to  come  to  you  and,  oh!  dear  good  papa,  do  let  me 
come.  It  is  so  lonesome  here  except  for  Uncle  John,  and  now  he  is 
going  away;  and  we  do  not  know  what  minute  Baltimore  may  be 


50  QUARTZ. 

burnt  to  ashes,  and  there  are  so  many  soldiers  here  coming  and  go- 
ing all  the  time,  and  marching  and  dramming  that  it  is  not  a  bit  like 
the  nice,  old  place  you  took  me  to  see  when  you  came  home  here  once 
before  the  trial,  and  when  mother  took  me  away.  Do  let  me  come, 
papa.  I'm  a  big  girl  now,  and  can  work  and  help  you  if  you  haven't 
got  much  money,  and  I  do  want  to  see  my  own,  dear  father,  and  be 
with  him  all  the  time.  I  read  in  the  papers  all,  every  single  word  I 
can  find,  about  California  and  Nevada  Territory,  and  sometimes  I 
am  so  afraid  that  you  will  get  killed  in  the  mines,  and  T  will  never 
eee  my  dear  papa  any  more.  Do  let  me  come  to  you.  Oh,  please 
do.  Uncle  John  gays  it  is  not  a  fit  place  for  me  out  there,  because 
it  is  so  rough,  but  I  do  not  care;  1  can  stay  wherever  my  papa  can 
and  1  will,  too,  if  you  will  let  me. 

I  wrote  to  you  a  long,  long  letter  all  about  mother's  death,  and 
about  how  the  money  you  left  for  me  in  Alexandria  is  lost,  because 
Mr.  Smith  has  gone  to  Richmond  with  the  Confederates.  Uncle 
John  eays  may  be  it  is  not  lost,  because  Mr.  Smith  is  an  honest  man 
and  your  best  friend;  but  I  hear  that  everything  at  Richmond  will 
be  lost  and  I  think  it  must  be,  because  the  Federal  soldiers  are  just 
swarming  into  Virginia. 

Uncle  John  says  our  nice  home  in  Alexandria  is  a  total  ruin.  Mr. 
Smith  was  very  good  to  me  and  sent  me  to  school  and  told  me  to 
learn  everything,  because  you  liked  yonr  people  to  be  ed  ucated ,  and 
I  did  try  to  learn  as  well  as  I  could  when  I  was  at  school,  and  Mrs. 
Ellicott  says  I  am  the  best  needle-woman  and  know  more  ab^ut  a 
eewing  machine  than  any  girl  in  the  factory. 

Papa,  if  you  will  let  me  come  and  live  with  you,  I  will  be  the  best 
girl  I  can,  and  never  give  you  any  trouble  if  I  can  help  it,  because 
my  poor,  dear  papa  has  had  trouble  enough. 

Now,  papa,  do  answer  this  letter  soon,  and  let  your  poor,  only, 
lonesome  daughter  know  how  you  are  and  if  you  are  well,  and  if  I 
may  come  and  be  with  you . 

God  bless  you,  my  dear  papa!  No  more  at  this  time,  from  your 
affectionate  daughter,  CALIFORNIA  CALVERT. 

Without  saying  a  word,  I  handed  the  letter  back  to  Dan,  who  was 
mopping  his  eyes  under  his  hat,  never  having  altered  his  position 
during  the  reading;  while  Crowder,  with  one  foot  on  the  lower  round 
of  Dan's  chain,  had  stood  listening  with  a  sad  face. 


QUARTZ.  51 

Dan  took  back  the  letter,  replaced  it  in  his  breast  coat  pocket,  and 
springing  to  his  feet,  dashed  out  of  the  saloon,  exclaiming  in  a  husky, 
choking  voice : 

"I'm  the  damnedest  old  fool  in  the  world!" 

He  was  gone,  and  Crowder  said,  partly  to  me  and  partly  to  him- 
self: "That's  what's  the  matter  with  him!" 

"Singular  character,  your  friend  seems  to  be,"  I  remarked. 

"Well,  no;  he's  not  so  singular — only  a  little  odd  just  now.  As  a 
general  thing  he's  one  of  the  levelest-headed  men  in  the  mountains; 
but  he's  been  on  his  gin  for  two  or  three  days — an  unusually  long 
drunk  for  him — and  I  could  see  something  bothering  him  ever  since 
he  came  to  this  camp,  now  about  three  months." 

"1  should  eay  his  home  affairs  are  working  on  him." 

"Yes,  sir,"  said  Crowder,  giving  his  bar-counter  an  extra  flourish 
in  the  way  of  polishing  it  off.  "That  daughter — a  good  girl  she  is, 
too,  I  reckon — has  been  winding  close  round  his  tenderness,  and 
bringing  a  heap  of  trouble  on  the  old  man's  mind.  That's  just  what 
he  never  could  stand  up  under.  Fight  him— buck  against  him,  and 
he's  all  iron  and  steel-pointed,  come  under,  and  cotton  to  him,  and 
you've  got  him — got  him,  dead  as  a  fish." 

"Why  is  ic  that  a  letter  written  so  long  ago  should  just  now  affect 
him  so  keenly?" 

"Why  he  never  got  the  letter,  I  think,  till  he  came  here  to  me, 
about  three  months  ago.  That  same  letter,  if  I  ain't  mistaken,  has 
been  in  my  trunk  since  it  was  sent  to  my  care,  while  he  was  away  in 
South  America  working  for  Harry  Meiggs,  and  the  devil  only  knows 
who  else." 

"Did  he  not  tell  you  of  it  after  you  had  given  it  to  him?" 

"No,  sir;  that's  not  his  gait.  I  gave  him  a  whole  lot  of  letters 
when  he  first  come,  and  he  went  away,  I  reckon  to  read  them. 
Then  in  about  an  hour  he  came  back,  looking  as  solemn  as  an  owl, 
and  says, 'Alec,  have  you  any  money?'  I  said  I  had.  'How  much?' 
says  he.  'Well,'  says  I,  'a  few  hundred.'  'Then,' says  he, 'for 
Jesus  Christ's  sake,  lend  me  two  or  three  hundred  dollars,  if  you  can 
spare  it  !'  I  gave  him  the  money  in  a  minute,  and  he  never  said  a 
word  to  me  what  the  matter  was  with  him.  But  I  know  now — that 
letter  tells  the  tale." 

"-Queer  idea  in  him  to  show  it  to  me, was  it  not?" 


52  QUARTZ. 

i 

"Well,  now,  do  you  know,  I  think  he's  been  trying  to  get  that 
out  of  himself ,  for  my  information,  for  two  days;  and  after  he  sat 
down  there  alongside  of  you  it  just  popped  into  his  boozy  old  head 
that  he  could  get  the  yarn  off  through  you." 

"What  is  his  business — miner?" 

"Miner  !  not  much.  He's  the  best  general  mechanic  that  ever 
gripped  a  hammer.  There  is  nothing  in  machinery  that  he  don't 
know  or  can't  do.  Did  you  ever  notice  his  big,  square  head,  and 
the  heavy  bumps  right  over  his  great  wide  eyebrows  ?  If  I  knew  as 
much  as  there  is  behind  them  bumps,  I'd  shut  up  this  gin-mill  so 
quick  people  would  think  there  was  a  funeral  on  hand .  He's  a 
poor  talker  with  his  mouth — don't  run  much  to  jawbone;  but  he  can 
make  wood  and  metal  say  his  say,  like  a  poet  and  a  philosopher. 
Humph  !  no  wonder  his  girl  can  get  away  with  all  the  points  on 
a  sewing  machine." 

"He  seems  to  be  a  man  of  big  feelings  and  a  bitter  sense  of 
wrong. ' ' 

"Yes,  sir.  Inside  of  him  he's  the  biggest- feeling  man  you  ever 
eaw.  It  cuts  him  to  the  raw  to  have  a  man  deceive  him,  and  it  cuts 
him  deeper  to  have  any  one  suspect  him  of  trying  to  go  back  on  any- 
thing; and  when  you  cut  him  lift  don't  heal  up  by  licking  his  wounds 
with  his  tongue.  He  can't  talk  away  his  trouble,  as  some  can." 

"I  have  noticed  the  same  trait  in  other  mechanics,  particularly 
those  who  have  to  do  with  steam-boilers.  Steam  is  an  exacting 
master,  who  will^not  be  put  off  with  a  lick  and  a  promise.  Such 
work  must  be  honestly  done,  in  the  smallest  details,  or  the  results 
are  disasters  which  ought  to  be  called  crimes." 

"Well,  that's  Dan!  Anything  that's  not  done  to  a  hair — correct — 
worries  him  like  a  ghost;  but  when  he  puts  his  finish  on  a  matter, 
and  gays 'that's  all  right/ then  it's  off  his  mind.  What's  worrying 
him  now  is  that  girl,  after  he'd  fixed  for  her,  being  thrown  out  by 
the  war." 

"Ah!  he  has  found  out  that  when  a  government  gets  into  trouble, 
even  private  affairs  will  not  stay  fixed." 

"I  suppose  so,"  said  Crowder,  whose  instincts  as  a  publican 
prompted  him  to  avoid  drifting  into  matters  political. 


CHAPTER  FOUR. 

STRICKEN. 

Daniel  Calvert — hottest  old  Dan — is  dead.  Urowder  still  dishes 
tip  the  drinks  for  the  convivial  parties  who  come  and  go  in  front  of 
him;  but  the  effort  he  puts  up  lo  wear  a  smiling  face  only  make  us, 
who  know  of  the  shrouded  sorrow  that  lies  prostrata  across  the 
threshold  of  his  heart,  all  the  more  sensitive  to  his  bereavement. 

We  are  a  rude  set  of  fellows — little  schooled  in  the  pretty  ce.mbin- 
ations  of  crape,  and  rose-wood  grief — and  we  don't  know  how  to  speak 
glibly  the  sadly-rounded  sentences  of  symbolic  sorrow  for  our  depart- 
ed brother  whom  "It  has  pleased  an  all-wise  God  to  take  from  our 
midst;3'  but  if  you  think  we  do  not  sympathize  with  Crowder, — for 
he  was  Crowder's  pard, — you  ought  to  have  been  present  when  Dan 
died,  and  when,  without  preacher  or  prayer-book,  we  buried  him — 
we,  a  little  squad  of  men  only — on  a  lonely  knoll  among  the  sage- 
brush at  noon-tide,  when  the  sun  was  painting  shadows  of  the  trees 
upon  the  crags. 

You  see,  the  way  of  it  was,  something  got  the  matter  with 
the  patent  pump  on  the  big  mine  of  the  Silver  Cup  Com- 
pany, and  they  sent  for  Dan  to  come  there  and  see-  if  be  couldn't 
find  what  ailed  it  and  fix  it.  So  Dan  went  out,  and  the  next  thing 
we  heard  was  that  he  was  fatally  hurt.  Crowder  got  one  of  the  boys 
to  look  after  the  saloon,  and  taking  Dr.  Duugleson  and  myself  with 
him,  hurried  to  Dan's  bedside. 

On  our  arrival  in  the  wild  little  camp  up  among  the  rocks  and 
crags  of  a  steep  canyon,  we  found  a  few  log  and  rough  stone  cabins 
clustering  around  the  boarded-up  frame  of  the  hoisting-works  and  the 
company  boarding-house;  and  in  one  of  these  little  log  cabins,  with  a 
mud  roof  and  a  dirt  floor,  lay  old  Dan,  mashed  up  but  still  alive, 
upon  a  bunk  made  of  peeled  cedar-poles, 

He  had  his  senses;  and  when  he  saw  Crowder  before  him,  his  eyes 
locked  the  welcome  which  his  paralyzed  hands  Gould  not  extend,  and 
the  tears  came  big  and  fast  down  upon  the  coarse  pillow. 

Strange,  strong  men  were  there,  going  in  and  out,  and  the  big  nails 


54  QUARTZ. 

in  their  heavy  boots  made  queer  pictures  in  the  dust  of  the  dirt-floor; 
but  there  was  no  noise,  no  useless  fussy  moving  about — only  quiet, 
patient  attention.  They  had  kept  constant  guard  over  him  for  two 
nights,  with  that  aching  suspense  that  waits,  not  knowing  what  better 
to  do,  and  watches  wounded  life,  and  listens  for  the  Doctor's  wheels 
among  the  echoing  aisles  of  mountain  crags. 

As  the  Doctor  went  forward  and  bent  over  Dan's  prostrate  body, 
the  men  formed  unconsciously  a  new  circle  behind  him — their  beads 
only  a  few  inches  from  the  low  roof — and  looked  and  listened,  each 
chest  heaving  with  silent,  suppressed  breathing,  until  the  Doctor  said; 

"There  is  not  enough  air  in  this  place/' 

Then,  instantly  and  quietly,  each  man  left  the  little  room  to  stand 
outside  and  whisper,  or  gaze  reflectively  down  the  bank  upon  the 
willows  in  the  canyon,  until  the  Doctor  came  out.  No  one  asked  any 
questions,  but,  as  the  Doctor  looked  in  the  face  of  each  and  then 
shook  his  bead  in  the  face  of  all,  they  knew  for  certain  that  which 
they  nearly  knew  before.  Crowder  did  not  come  out;  but  I,  as  in 
some  degrees  his  backer  in  this  case,  went  immediately  in  and  found 
Dan's  old  pard  sitting  by  his  bedside,  upon  one  of  those  clumsy  wood- 
en stools  so  common  in  mining  camps.  We  were  silent  for  some 
moments,  when  Dan,  poor  fellow,  as  stoutly  and  cheerily  as  he  could, 
•lid, 

"Boys,  my  driving  power  is  a  total  wreck.  I'll  never  get  up  steam 
again." 

Nobody  responded.  Nobody  knew  any  true  word  suitable  for  re- 
sponse, and  death  will  not  accept  a  flattery. 

f 'Crowder,  old  pard,  you  needn't  introduce  me  to  this  gentleman. 
I  couldn't  offer  him  my  hand,  but  I  know  him — I  saw  him  once  be- 
fore— and  I'm  glad  to  see  him  again;  but  if  he'll  excuse  me  a  little 
while,  I've  something  to  say  to  you." 

* 'Certainly,  certainly,  Mr.  Calvert  !  I'm  glad  to  see  you  again — that 
is,  I  would  be  glad  if  I  wasn't  so  sorry,"  said  I  in  a  confused  way,  as 
I  left  the  cabin ;  while  Dan  replied : 

"Thank  you,  sir.     It's  a  mixed  case." 

I  don't  yet  know  what  took  place  between  Dan  and  his  old  pard. 
Perhaps  I  never  will  know.  But  I  left  them  there,  and  after  stand- 
ing outside  among  the  boys  for  awhile,  talking  about  how  the  staging 
—or  scaffolding — gave  way  and  dropped  Dan  to  the  bottom  of  the 


QUABTZ,  55 

shaft,  I  said,  through  the  doorway,  to  Crowder,  that  I  would  be 
back  presently,  and  went  by  their  invitation  up  to  the  mine,  to  be 
showed  how  it  all  happened,  and  to  be  told  that  no  one  would  have 
supposed  that  such  a  thing  could  happen — so  singularly  surprising 
is  often  the  last  summons, — and  yet  that  it  did  happen. 

After  it  had  all  been  explained  to  me,  I  met  the  Doctor  at  the 
mouth  of  the  mine,  and  asked,  as  much  for  the  relief  there  is  in  say- 
ing something,  as  for  any  other  purpose. 

"Doctor,  is  there  the  least  show  for  your  patient?" 
"Not  the  slightest,  sir.  He  may  linger  till  morning.  Let  me  see" 
— and  taking  out  his  watch,  he  added,  "it  is  now  twenty  minutes 
past  four — he  may  linger  till  morning.  The  reaction  has  set  in,  but 
there  is  nothing  to  react  on.  His  light  will  soon  burn  out.  But  he 
may  linger  till  morning — linger,  linger  till  morning,  sir." 

And  the  doctor  walked  away,  kicking  the  broken  particles  of  rock 
in  front  of  him,  as  studious  men  sometimes  do  when  they  have  run 
against  a  disagreeable  moral  certainty. 

I  went  down  the  trail  repeating  to  myself,  "linger  till  morning,  sir 
— linger  till  morning"  and  sat  down  on  the  rough  wash-bench  which 
is  found  always  outside  a  miner's  cabin,  beside  the  door.  I  could 
hear  the  low  mutter  of  indistinguishable  words  from  within,  as  I  sat 
gazing  upon  the  ragged,  gnarled,  and  cheerless  mahogany  trees  that 
maintained  an  arid  foothold  in  the  jagged  seams  of  the  opposite  side 
of  the  canyon,  while  the  white  wandering  fleece-clouds  came  and 
went  across  the  dry  blue  opening  of  the  sky,  between  the  mountains, 
overhead;  but  there  still  kept  throbbing  in  my  mind  the  dull,  sad 
chorus  of  death — "linger  till  morning,  sir,  linger  till  morning." 

At  length  Crowder  came  to  me  where  I  sat  by  the  door,  and  said, 
in  a  low  voice  and  subdued  manner: 

"Go  in  and  stay  with  him;  he  won't  last  long.  Beginning  to 
wander  in  his  mind.  I  must  go  up  to  the  mine  and  see  the  superin- 
tendent." 

"Certainly,"  I  replied,  and  stepped  inside  the  cabin.  Dan,  being 
so  crushed  by  his  fall  that  he  could  move  neither  hand  nor  foot,  made 
no  demonstration  further  than  to  show  by  his  expressive  face  that  he 
recognized  me.  I  sat  beside  him  on  the  stool  and  gave  him  such  at- 
tention as  his  sad  case  would  permit.  Presently  he  said: 

"That  time  I  was  tight  in  the  saloon — you  remember — you  read  a 


56  QUARTZ. 

letter  for  me.  I  have  not  tasted  a  drop  since;  I  was  getting  along 
first  rate.  I've  had  two  letters  from  my  little  girl  since." 

There  he  paused  a  long  pause  and, not  having  the  use  of  his  hands, 
I  had  cause  to  assist  him  with  a  handkerchief  about  his  eyes. 

"I  had  hopes  of  going  to  see  her  this  coming   winter,  but — but — " 

He  paused  again;  I  laid  my  hand  upon  his  forehead,  and  found  it 
hot  and  throbbing.  Talking  more  to  himself  than  to  me  he  continued: 

"Poor  girl  !  poor  girl  !  no,  not  little  now.  That's  good — that's 
good — not  little.  A  woman — my  daughter;  my  daughter — a  woman. 
Good  woman,  too;  writes  like  a  good  woman — no  humbug — no  frills 
— head  level.  Give  me  some  water,  Cally.  Throat  dry — and  hot — 
as  Death  Valley.  Yes,  yes,  Death  Valley — but  I  didn't  mean  that, 
Cally.  No,  no.  If  I'm  going  —of  course  I'm  going — I'll  not  whine. 
I'm  ready,  ready,  don't  cry,  Cally — no  use.  Got  to  be,  you  know 
—got  to  be ." 

Then  he  remained  silent  again,    but  soon  resumed   in  a  wilder  key: 

"Hot!  Johnson,  there'll  bean  earthquake.  Everything  is  hot 
and  close  and  still — be  an  earthquake,  sure.  Look  out  !  There  she 
goes!  Didn't  I  tell  you!  We'd  better  get  out  of  this — this  shop 
will  comtt  down.  All  right,  Johnson,  old  boy;  we're  a  heap  better 
out  of  that.  Here  she  goes  again  !  That  was  a  bumper  !  Look  I 
look,  the  Spanish  running  into  that  stone  cathedral  !  Why,  d — n 
'em,  that's  no  place  in  an  earthquake;  it'll  come  down,  sure  !  Now 
she  goes  again — whoop  !  it  makes  me  sweat  like  a  horse.  How  do 
you  stand  it,  old  boy?" 

Evidently  he  was  away  in  South  America,  going  again  through 
scenes  of  terror  with  that  queer  compound  of  courage  and  curious  ob- 
servation go  common  to  our  countrymen .  After  another  pause  the 
scene  changed  with  him. 

"Johnson,  there's  a  storm  upon  us — a  terrible  storm.  Let's  put 
the  blankets  over  the  hut  and  fasten  them  down,  for  it's  coming — 
coming  fast.  Hark  !  don't  you  hear  the  thunder  over  the  tree-tops? 
It's  going  to  be  a  hell  of  a  night.  If  we're  alive  in  the  morning  we'll 
bid  New  Granada  good-bye.  Now  she  comes  !  Don't  you  hear  that 
panther  howl  ?  Listen  !  yell,  old  fellow,  you'll  get  a  drenching . 
Whew  !  how  it  pours  !  Tie  the  blanket  down,  Johnson — let's  keep 
dry  if  we  can — it'll  be  cold  here  before  morning — getting  cold  now." 

Thus   he  continued  from  scene  to  scene   of  his  varied  life,  until 


QUARTZ.  57 

Crowder  came  and  desired  me  to  go  to  supper.  Leaving  Dan  still 
muttering,  but  weaker  and  weaker  each  moment,  I  went;  and  when  I 
returned  again  he  was  silent — not  dead,  but  collapsed  and  surely  dy- 
ing. 

The  boys  of  the  day  shift,  being  off  work,  came  and  went;  and, 
among  the  rest,  Dan's  spirit  went  but  came  not,  for  before  midnight 
he  was  cold  and  dead. 

The  saw  and  plane  and  hammer  of  the  carpenter  of  the  mine 
gnawed,  squeaked  and  rang  bueily  for  hours  in  the  night;  then  all 
was  still  as  the  man  who  lay  roughly  clad  in  the  new-made  coffin, 
gave  the  regularly  recurrent  spells  of  coughing  of  the  engine,  as  with 
a  rapid  che-ch-ch-ch  she  raised  the  car  of  rock  from  the  depths  be- 
low. 

A  short  sleep  for  all  except  the  watchers  by  the  narrow-box,  and 
morning  dawned  bright,  clear,  warm,  and  dry.  Quietly  and  stead- 
ily we  arranged  for  the  funeral,  without  ceremony  or  officious  man- 
nerism. Not  a  hammer  clinked  upon  the  head  of  any  drill — not  an 
explosion  of  blasting  powder  to  reverberate  into  a  roar  amidst  the 
naked,  rocky  peaks — all  silent — or  that  silence  disturbed  only  by  the 
low,  slow  throb  of  the  pumping  engine  of  the  mine. 

When  the  sun  was  up  full  and  round,  we  brought  forth  the  un- 
painted,  unvarnished,  undraped,  and  unplated,  heavy  box,  and  by 
the  aid  of  a  hundred  willing  and  able  hands,  passed  it  down  the  nar- 
row trail  over  the  rocks  to  the  wag  on -road,  that  winds  with  the  fee- 
ble stream  of  willow -fringed  water  out  of  the  canon,  into  the  dry 
waste  of  the  valley  below. 

Voluntarily,  without  command,  we  moved  onward  and  downward; 
not  toward  the  grave-jard,  but  toward  the  grave,  wherever  that 
might  be,  among  the  sage-brush  of  the  foot-hill,  where  never  before 
had  a  grave  been  made.  Six  at  a  time,  strong  men  relieved  each 
other  for  a  distance  of  two  mile?,  and  the  regular  tread  of  iron-shod 
heels  crunched,  crunched  the  gravel  underfoot — the  only  music  of 
the  march.  Then  we  rested  a  moment  to  drink  where  the  road 
leave?  the  stream  as  it  winds  directly  out  upon  the  hills. 

Heretofore  this  had  been  a  cheerless,  sombre  funeral;  no  hit  of 
color  brighter  than  black,  brown,  and  gray;  no  gaudy  female  head- 
gear; no  glitter  of  coach- varnish;  nothing  but  the  subdued  (strength 
of  brawny  men,  clad  in  the  useful  colors  of  respectable  labor,  march- 


58  QUARTZ.  % 

ing  silently  between  the  everlasting  rocky  walls  of  the  canon,  to  the 
echo  of  their  own  firm  feet  and  the  tinkling  treble  of  the  stream. 
But  now,  as  we  took  up  the  load  to  move  forward  for  another  and  last 
mile,  the  six  Cornish  miners  who  carried  the  corpse  were  accompan- 
ied by  a  seventh  with  a  book  in  his  hand;  this  seventh,  placing  him- 
self in  front  of  the  coffin  as  we  started,  opened  his  book  as  he  walked, 
and  read  aloud  two  lines  of  the  burial  hymn  of  his  home  people. 
Reading  these  lines  aloft  with  a  clear,  ringing  voice,  he  chanted  as 
he  marched,  and  was  joined  in  the  chant  by  as  many  of  his  country- 
men as  were  in  the  procession.  Thus  reading  and  singing,  we  marched 
our  way  slowly  out  of  the  canon,  leaving  the  echoes  flying  and  dy- 
ing behind  us. 

Arrived  at  the  grave — the  grave  alone  in  the  desert — (and  many, 
in  many  deserts,  such  there  are) — we  found  the  native  Indians,  drawn 
by  emotionless  curiosity,  gathered  in  a  picturesque  and  tattered  group 
of  men,  women,  children,  ponies  and  dogs,  at  a  short  distance  from 
the  two  miners  who  awaited  our  coming,  leaning  on  their  shovels  by 
the  fresh -turned  earth. 

Slowly  and  steadily  we  lowered  the  coffin  and  settled  it  firmly  in 
its  place;  and  there  being  no  ministers,  no  ceremony,  no  near  rela- 
tions to  cast  the  last  tearful  look  into  the  open  earth,  the  shovels  were 
grasped  by  skillful  hands  and  in  the  briefest  space  the  final  work 
would  have  been  over,  had  not  one  of  our  number,  doffing  his  hat, 
said  "Gentlemen." 

Instantly  the  shovels  stopped  in  the  gravel,  and  all  heads  were 
bared  to  the  sun  and  sky. 

"Gentlemen: — In  the  absence  of  all  customary  funeral  services,  it 
may  not  be  amiss  in  this  case  if  I  say  a  few  words — words  not  of 
balm  to  wounded  hearts — words  not  of  religious  comfort;  but  words 
to  indicate  that  however  far  we  may  be  from  the  cradles  of  civiliza- 
tion, we  still  bear  in  our  hearts  the  elements  of  that  civilization  which 
distinguishes  our  people  from  the  wild  man  who  now  holds  us  under 
the  observation  of  his  untutored  eye. 

"There  is  another  land,  known  to  some  of  us,  which,  though 
kindred  to  this?  where  we  now  stand  and  shadowed  by  the  same  bright 
flag,  is  not,  as  this  is,  a  waste  of  wilderness.  In  that  land,  where 
the  great  forests  of  many  trees  and  the  wide  prairies  of  gras*  and 
flowers  are  nourished  by  generous  and  mighty  rivers,  this  our 


QtARTZ.  59 

dead,  now  in  the  open  grave  was  born;  and  there  he  learned,  at  his 
mother's  knee,  not  only  the  common  prayers,  too  easily  forgotten,  but 
the  humanity  and  kindliness  of  man  to  man,  which  endures  through 
life,  and  is  best  represented  in  sickness,  death  and  burial. 

<!It  is  well  for  us,  in  scene?  like  this,  to  remember  what  we  have 
been,  to  consider  what  we  are,  and  to  see  what  we  must  be;  and,  from 
these  facts,  to  be  advised  that  life  is  not  all  a  battle-field  where  man 
goes  armed  against  his  fellow,  but  that  it  is  and  ought  to  be,  a  season 
of  peaceful  industry  crowned  with  a  degree  of  mental  trustfulness . 
Here  is  the  place — or  one  place  at  least — to  call  to  mind  that  we  are 
dependant  upon  each  other;  that  the  life  of  each  man  is  some  support 
to  the  life  of  all  men.  Here  is  the  place  to  learn  that  if  we  are  not 
our  'brother's  keeper/  we  are  at  least  his  pallbearers  no  less  than  he 
is  ours.  'We  are  responsible  each  for  the  final  repose  of  the  other. 

"Who,  my  friends,  looking  now  into  the  grave  and  thinking  of 
home — aye,  home — to  us  more  dear  when  distance  heares  its  moun- 
tain-breast to  shut  the  picture  out — who,  I  say,  looking  into  this  open 
grave,  thinking  of  home,  of  childhood,  of  mother,  can  go  away  to 
belt  upon  his  hip  and  nurse  in  his  heart  those  designs  upon  human 
life  which  are  too  common — too  frequent — in  our  days  and  nights  1 
Let  us  strive  here  to  take  a  lesson  against  anger,  illwill,  and  violence  ! 
Let  us  cultivate  peace  !  Let  us  foster  contentment  !  Let  us  bear 
with  the  hasty  spirit  of  others,  to  the  end  that  we  may  ask  forbear 


ance 


Gentlemen,  here  we  must  leave  the  dead,  as,  erelong,  the  living 
will  leave  us.  Let  us  now  do  so,  with  admiration  for  his  courage 
and  ability  as  a  true  soldier  in  the  army  of  intelligent  industry — with 
a  regret  and  pardon  for  his  errors — a  tear  for  his  fate,  and  a  new  re- 
solve, born  of  this  tenderness,  to  stand  by  each  other  in  all  good  and 
peaceful  endeavors. 

"Now,  to  the  unknown  and  undiscoverable  designs  of  the  All- 
keeper  of  the  universe,  who  has  written  around  us  in  mountain-lines 
the  evidence  of  his  exaltation  above  the  reach  of  our  most  majestic 
thought,  we  leave,  with  the  simplicity  of  childhood,  the  future  of 
this  mystery  we  call — the  dead  !" 

At  the  last  word  the  speaker  replaced  his  hat,  and  simultaneously 
all  hats  were  replaced;  and  then,  by  those  long  used  to  handle  earth, 
the  grave  was  quickly  filled.  Crowder drove  down  'at  the  head  of 


60  QTJABTZ. 

the  new  aud  narrow  mound  the  plain  board  with  its  rude  black  paint 
markings — 

DANIEL  CALVERT. 

BORN 

In  Alexandria,  Virginia, 

June,  1826. 
Age,  47  years . 

With  the  shovels,  picks  and  ropes  distributed  among  us,  we  wend- 
ed our  way  in  orderly  disorder,  with  the  noon-day  sun  high  above 
us,  back  to  the  mine,  where  the  scream  of  the  engine  soon  summon- 
ed the  appointed  laborers  to  their  task;  for  the  link  lost  out  of  _the 
chain  of  industry  is  ever  replaced  by  a  new  one  from  the  shop  of 
busy,  effort-fostering  nature. 

Crowder  and  I — the  Doctor  having  returned  at  once — left  the 
camp  and  rode  far  into  the  night  to  reach  home.  On  the  way,  as  we 
rode  along,  Crowder  requested  me  to  ask  some  friend  of  mine  to 
assist  him  and  myself  to  look  over  Dan's  papers,  fix  up  his  business 
and  communicate  the  sad  facts  to  the  daughter;  because,  he  said,  he 
was  not  used  to  writing  long  letters,  and  would  not  spell  just  proper, 
always.  Bidding  Crowder  a  mid-night  farewell,  I  went  home  to  bed 
full  of  reflections  upon  the  matter  of  man's  wanderings,  both  bodily 
aud  mental.  I  wondered  much  what  the  pious  people  in  the  older 
States  would  think  about  on  the  morrow  (Sunday)  while  they  con- 
gregated in  the  soft  light,  among  the  easy  seats  of  highly-finished 
churches,  to  listen  to  a  sweetly  toned  and  well-rounded  rhapsody 
upon  the  redemption  of  the  world  by  preaching  the  Word.  I  said  to 
myself,"  Alas,  these  very  respectable,  pious,  Sunday  people  have  no 
notion  of  the  grandeur  of  their  own  vast  country;  no  notion  that 
their  piety  is  a  mere  beautiful  rainbow-hued  bubble,  floating  upon 
the  surface  of  the  heaving,  earnest  active  depths  of  life  that  bears  it 
up,  and  make  its  beauty  possible. 

While  they  listen  in  their  painted  play  house,  to  the  artificial  gra- 
ces of  vocal  and  instrumental  music,  dashed  with  studied,  eloquent, 
displays,  the  great  harp  of  the  west  wind  playing  over  thousands  of 


QUABTZ. 


61 


lonely  and  manly  graves,  sings  through  the  aisles  of  the  many  moun- 
tains the  true,  unpainted  glory  and  goodness  of  the  unexplained  and 
unpreachable  All-keeper. 


<S^fS% 


MEA  CULPA, 


CHAPTER  I. 

"Pass  the  coffin  varnish  this  way,  Lieutenant  Miles  O'Riely,  and 
then  spread  the  cootents  of  the  swill-tub  you  raided  to-day. " 

"Coffin  varnish,  indade  ?  I'd  have  you  to  understand,  Major  Kin- 
took,  that  it  was  meself  that  paid  fifty  cints,  this  very  day,  for  that 
illigant  bottle  o'  spirits.  And  ye  ought  to  have  seen  me  a-beggin' 
the  widda,  up  at  the  big  house  beyant,  for  these  four  bits  !  I  tould 
her  I  had  a  big  family  of  six  to  support — and  the  divil  a  lie  was  it 
aither,  for  there  ain't  one  of  yees  can  beg  worth  a  cint — and  we 
hadn't  a  mouthful  for  three  days.  She  shelled  out  as  illigant  a  lot  of 
grub  as  iver  a  gintleman  thramp  flopped  his  lip  over,  and  there  it  is 
jist  wrapped  up  in  my  ould  coat  anent  ye.  Och,  Major  darling,  ye 
never  had  a  better  male  in  ould  Kentooky  than  I'll  sphread  before  ye 
in  a  minute.  When  I  seed  she  was  affected  loik,  and  had  swallowed 
me  whole  batch  of  lies,  I  tole  her,  God  bless  her,  that  I  wanted  jist 
four  bits  to  buy  some  medicine  for  me  poor  sick  baby.  She  shelled  it 
out  so  aisy  loik  that  I  wished  I  had  made  it  a  dollar  !  Begorry,  I 
ain't  no  lieutenant,  me  name  is  not  Miles,  neither  is  it  O'Beily,  I 
haven't  raided  no  swill-tub  to  day,  nor  have  I  the'contenta  of  a  swill- 
tub  in  me  ould  coat.  So,  old  fel,  subject  as  ye  are  to  mistakes,  ye 
niver  made  more  of  them  in  one  shovt  sintence.  Coffin  varnish,  iu- 
dade  !  But,  I  say,  Major  darlint,  it  will  be  precious  little  varnish 
that  the  country  that  has  the  honor  of  burying  ye  will  put  on  your 
coffin  !  So  if  it  is  varnish  ye  loik,  ye  bad  better  give  that  beautiful 
nose  of  yourn  another  coat !  Begorry,  Major,  it's  as  beautiful  a  nose 
as  I  iver " 

"Oh,  shut  up  that  fly-trap.  Pass  the  appetizer  and  spread  the 
banquet.  Does  that  suit  your  humor  any  better  ?" 

"Considerin'  the  hard  work  I've  had,  and  the  imminent  success 
that  attended  me  efforts,  couldn't  ye  as  well  say  plase  ?" 

"Please." 

"Loik  a  gintleman." 

Six  men  were  lounging  around  a  camp  tire  under  a  growth  of  wild 


MEA   CULPA.  63 

grape-vines  which  covered  a  thicket  of  young  oaks,  so  denpe  as  to 
shut  out  almost  entirely  the  rays  of  the  sun,  as  well  as  all  sign  of  the 
bleak  north  wind  that  was  sweeping  down  the  Sacramento  valley. 
The  public  road  at  this  point  was  about  one  hundred  yards  from  the 
river,  and  the  thicket  extended  from  one  to  the  other.  The  camp 
was  about  midway  between  the  two.  It  had  for  some  time  been  a  re- 
eort  for  gypsies  and  those  *  'gentlemen"  who  make  a  great  show  of 
hunting  work  while  hoping  never  to  find  it.  The  fall  had  been  a  very 
dry  one,  so  that  even  at  the  approach  of  winter  there  was  no  difficul- 
ty in  camping  out  in  such  a  protected  spot.  These  six  men  were  all 
poorly  dressed.  Some  were  positively  ragged,  while  others  wore 
clothes  that  had  evidently  been  made  for  some  other  person.  They 
were  "tramps,"  but  a  close  observer  would  not  have  taken  either  one 
of  them  for  a  thief  or  a  bad  man.  The  one  addressed  as  "Major"  in 
the  above  conversation,  and  with  whom  we  shall  have  more  concern 
than  with  the  others,  was  six  feet  and  an  inch  tall,  broad  shoulders, 
well  made  in  every  particular,  and  weighed  about  two  hundred 
pounds.  One  could  easily  see  even  beneath  his  uncombed  hair  and 
heavy  beard,  that  hung  in  tangled  masses  nearly  half  way  to  his  waist 
that  he  had  been  a  strikingly  handsome  man. 

The  luncheon  spread  out  by  the  individual  addressed  as  Miles 
O'Riely — and  we  may  as  well  call  him  Miles,  for  his  real  name  at  this 
time  is  of  no  importance  to  our  narrative — while  is  was  composed 
more  or  less  of  the  scraps  from  the  table,  was  substantial,  and  might 
have  tempted  the  appetite  of  those  far  above  the  professional  tramp. 

"Now,  be  me  sowl,  this  is  what  I  call  entirely  illegant.  There  is 
that  home-spun  light  bread !  I  bet  a  pipe  o'tobacca  the  widda  made  it 
with  her  own  swate  hands.  And  that  slice  o'  cowld  corn  beef!  And 
ham!  Ocb,  Major,  and  if  this  be  the  schrapes  wouldn't  ye  loik  to  be 
a  rigular  boarder  at  the  table  ?  Did  ye  ever  see  the  widda,  Major  ?* 

"I  never  did,  and  I  think  it  is  hardly  worth  while  for  me  to  call 
on  her,  as  you  seem  to  be  completely  taken  up  with  her,  and  I  should 
stand  no  chance  against  one  so  eloquent  as  yourself." 

"Chance,  is  it?  Listen,  by s,  to  the  loiks  o'  that?  A  thramp 
talking  about  chance!  But  I  tell  ye,  by  s,  I  believe  the  Major  did 
make  an  impreshun.  To-day  while  I  was  a  stuffin  the  widda  wid 
me  lois,  who  should  walk  by  the  house,  big  as  life,  but  our  Major. 


64  MEA   CULPA. 

He  stopped  for  a  minit  until  I  could  show  him  my  purty  countenance, 
so  he  could  know  the  claim  was  being  worked .  The  widda  she 
looked  at  this  thramp  through  the  window,  and  turned  a  little  red 
in  the  face,  and  ses  she  to  me,  "Do  you  know  that  man  ?  Consid- 
in'  I  had  the  precedent  of  St.  Peter  before  my  eyes  in  denying  his 
master,  I  sed,  'No,  mum,  but  I  suppose  he  is  some  drunken  thramp.'  " 

"Then,"  interrupted  the  Major,  "you  improve  somewhat  on  St. 
Peter." 

"Of  course;  isn't  this  the  age  of  improvement  ?  As  the  chap  wid 
the  puddin'  head  said  at  the  Dimocratic  spaking,  Ain't  this  the 
nineteenth  cintury  ?  But,  Major,  can  ye  improve  on  that  other 
character  ?" 

The  conversation  was  interrupted  by  the  appearance  on  the  scene 

of  another  per;?onag«. 

"Good  evening/'  said  the  Major ;  "won't  you  have  a  seat  ?" 
"No,  thank  you;  I  left   my   team   standing   in   the   road,  but   I 

wanted  to  hire  a  man,  and  hearing  you  folks  in  here,  I  concluded  to 

see  if  I  could  get  one  of  you  to  work  for  me." 

There  was  a  silence  of  half  a  minute,  when  one  of  the  men  asked  : 
"What  do  you  pay?" 

"Well,  considering  there  is  not  much  doing,  now,  I  think  about 
twenty-five  dollars  a  mouth  is  about  all  I  can  afford." 

"What  do  you  expect  a  man  to  do?"  asked  another. 

"Drive  team,  milk  the  cows,  plow,  harrow — or  in  short,  farm 
work  generally." 

A  derisive  chuckle  went  round  the  camp.  "All  that,"  exclaimed 
one,  "for  twenty-five  dollars  ?" 

"And  I  guess  a  fellow  would  have  to  eat  in  the  kitchen  at  that!" 
put  in  another. 

"And  sleep  in  the  stable!"  said  another. 

"I  guess,"  said  the  Major,  "you  have  come  to  the  wrong  place  to 
find  the  man  you  want." 

"It  seems  so;  but  I  tell  you  what  it  is,  such  men  as  you  are  forcing 
us  rancbers  to  hire  Chinamen,"  and  the  rancher  walked  off  in  NO 
amiable  frame  of  mind. 

"There  is  that  everlasting  Chinaman  again,"  said  one  of  the  men. 
e<  Whenever  a  decent  man  refuses  to  take  beggarly  wages,  he  has  a 


MEA    CULPA.  65 

Chinaman  thrust  in  his  teeth.     The  cussed  ranchers  ain't  wiling  to 
give  a  white  man  a  chance." 

"That's  what's  the  matter  with  this  country.  If  it  wasn't  for  the 
hellish  Chinamen  this  State  would  be  prosperous  like  the  Eastern 
States,  and — " 

"With  wages  at  twelve  dollars  a  month,"  interrupted    the   Major. 

"What's  the  matter  with  you?''  exclaimed  several  in  a  voice. 
"Why  didn't  you  take  his  beggarly  twenty-five  dollars,  and  take  care 
of  his  horses,  and  inilk  his  cows,  and  plow  and  harrow,  and  sleep  in 
hi*  barn,  and  eat  in  his  kitchen  with  his  Chinamen  ?" 

"I  didn't  do  it  because  I  am  a  tramp;  because  I  am  a  vagabond  on 
the  face  of  the  earth;  because  I  long  ago  lost  my  grip  /" 

Here  the  Major  took  another  long  pull  at  the  four-bit  bottle  of 
"illegant  spirits,"  and  continued:  "There  was  a  time  when  I  would 
have  taken  that  man's  offer,  and  I  would  have  made  myself  indispen- 
sable to  him;  I  would  have  saved  my  money  and  become  independent. 
But  we  who  have  grasped  for  better  things,  and  waiting  for  somebody 
to  'give  us  a  chance/  as  my  friend  just  said,  to  make  something 
without  the  slow  process  of  earning  it,  cannot  bring  ourselves  to  accept 
decent  wages,  and  do  honest  work." 

"Hoorah!  That's  better  than  a  Dimocratic  speech,"  exclaimed 
Miles:  "let's  run  the  Major  for  Governor!" 

"Each  one  of  you,"  continued  the  Major,  "has  a  history.  Yo 
dreams  of  the  land  of  gold  have  failed  to  be  realized.  You  are  n 
satisfied  to  take  the  world  as  it  is,  and  hence  you  have  become — 

"Tramps  and  vagabonds,"  exclaimed  Miles. 

"I  did  not  intend  to  say  that;  but  let  it  go.  I  will  submit  the 
question  to  the  candor  of  each  one  of  you,  and  ask  if  disappoint- 
ment has  not  made  you  what  each  one  of  us  is  to-day — a  wreck  of 
human  society,  a  drone  in  the  busy  hive,  a  consumer  of  garbage,  a 
wearer  of  cast-off  clothes,  a  guzzler  of  rot-gut,  a — " 

"Say,  Major,  darlint,  there  is  a  wee  bit  left;  won't  ye  be  after 
agiving  your  stomach  another  coat  of  that  same  'coffin  varnish?'  It'll 
loosen  up  your  tongue  loik,  so  you  can  spake  them  hard  words 
berther." 

The  Major  held  out  his  hand,  grasped  the  officers  bottle,  took  a 
long  pull  at  its  contents,  and  continued:  " — a  disgrace  to  the  mother 


66  MEA  CULPA. 

who  bore  him,  a  walking  reproach  to  the  God  who  made  man  in  His 
own  image." 

During  the  conclusion  of  the  sentence  the  Major  held  the  bottle 
firmly  by  the  neck,  and  as  he  finished  speaking,  as  if  to  drown  the 
recollections  that  secerned  to  be  crowding  upon  bis  memory,  he 
drained  it  to  the  bottom,  and  then  threw  the  empty  bottle  into  the 
bush.  "Go!"  he  exclaimed;  "Go!  Yon  are  as  valueless  as  a  man 
with  the  spirits  all  out  of  him!" 

"But,  be  gory,  it's  noaisy  job  to  fill  it  wid  spirits  again!" 

"It  takes  money  to  fill  the  bottle,  and  money  will  put  spirits  into 
the  worn-out  bulk  of  a  man,"  grumbled  one  of  the  others. 

"But  there  is  a  command,"  suggested  Miles,  "agin  puttin'  new 
wine  into  old  bottles.  And  I  am  afraid  the  spirits  of  prosperity  would 
burst  such  an  ould  leathern  canteen  as  yourself,  Jimmy  Piske!  Yees 
couldn't  stand  the  pressure !" 

"There  is  too  much  truth  in  that  remark,"  said  the  Major.  "It 
would  be  bard  to  find  a  man  who  had  lost  his  grip  on  life  entirely 
who  could  stand  prosperity.  I  imagine  one  would  be  constantly 
pinching  himself  to  see  if  he  was  not  dreaming.  He  would  always 
be  timid,  halting  and  cowardly.  That  is,  unless  he  was  by  nature 
endowed  with  an  extraordinary  amount  of  good  sense." 

"Good  since,  Major;  good  since!  Do  you  think  a  man  of  good 
since  would  even  be  such  a  thramp  as  all  of  yees  are,  barrin  and  ex- 
cepting myself  of  course  ?" 

"That  may  be  s  debatable  question,  but  I  am  inclined  to  take  the 
affirmative." 

"Be  me  sowl,  I'd  take  tfie  other  eide;  but  see  the  jury  we'd  have 
to  leave  it  to  ?" 

"I  have  seen  men  whom  the  world  said  were  talented,  so  overcome 
by  a  single  reverse  of  fortune  as  to  commit  suicide.  I  have  seen 
others  recover  from  shock  after  shock  until  their  money  was  all  gone, 
and  they  were  left  dismantled  hulks  on  the  sea  of  life,  carried  hither 
and  thither  by  the  varying  winds  and  changing  tides.  Men  of  the 
finest  talent  have  become  inmates  of  the  lunatic  asylum.  Of  course, 
if  a  man  could  always  maintain  his  mental  equilibrium  he  would 
never  lose  his  grip — his  energy  would  never  lag;  but  that  is  impos- 
sible. That  one  loses  his  equilibrium  is  no  sign  he  never  had  it." 

Here  the  man  whom  his  companions  had  named  Jim  Fiske,  because 


MEA   CULPA. 


67 


he  had  at  one  time  exhibited  to  their  astonished  gaze  a  twenty-dollar 
gold  piece,  raised  excitedly  to  his  feet,  gave  the  fire  a  vigorous  kick 
and  said,  vehemently:  "Suppose  an  infamous  crime  had  been  com- 
mitted and  circumstances  pointed  to  you  as  the  perpetrator,  and  wove 
around  you  a  network  of  proof  you  dare  not  face;  and  then  suppose 
you  should  assume  the  guise  of  a  tramp,  in  fact  become  one;  who 
would  dare  say  you  had  not  sense,  to  begin  with  ?" 

"I  should  say,"  replied  the  Major  coolly,  "that  such  a  one  would 
be  a  romantic  sort  of  a  tramp,  and  he  might  make  his  fortune  by 
relating  his  adventures  in  a  dime  novel.  But  Jim,  did  you  ever  see 
such  a  tramp  ?" 

'•Yes,  I  met  such  a  one  a  few  years  ago.  He  is  dead  now,  poor 
fellow.  I  helped  to  bury  him."  And  Jim  stretched  himself  on  his 
blankets,  which  were  half  unrolled,  filled  his  pipe  with  tobacco,  took 
a  coal  between  his  thumb  and  index  finger,  placed  it  in  the  bowl 
of  his  pipe,  and  gave  a  vigorous  pull  at  the  stem . 

"Now"  said  Miles,  "for  the  story.  We  hain't  had  a  dacent  story 
since  we  have  been  in  this  camp." 

"Yes,"  said  the  Major;  "the  story.  We  have  all  had  an  'illegant 
male/  as  Miles  would  say;  the  shadows  of  evening  are  creeping  on 
apace,  and  as  we  haven't  said  our  evening  prayers  and  are  not  ready 
to  be  tucked  in  our  little  beds,  we  will  while  away  the  time  listening 
to  the  'Story  of  an  Unfortunate  Tramp.'  I  suppose  from  the  prologue 
that  would  be  a  good  name  to  give  it." 

"It  is  not  a  long  story,  gentlemen,  and,  as  I  have  never  attempt- 
ed to  write  a  dime  novel,  you  will  excuse  me  if  I  fail  to  interest  you 
for  any  great  length  of  time.  In  fact  my  friend  did  not  know  the 
whole  story,  and  became  a  tramp,  and  died  because  he  did  not." 


S->nie  years  ago  this  friend  of  mine — never  mind  his  name — was  a 
bright,  intellectual  young  man,  who  had  just  reached  his  majority. 
Buoyant  with  energy,  health  and  a  firm  self-reliance,  it  seemed  to 
him  and  his  friends  that  life  must  be  a  success.  But  never  mind  sen- 
timent; a  tramp's  camp  is  not  exactly  the  place  for  that,  anyhow. 
He  left  Lake  City,  Nevada  county,  one  autumn  afternoon,  on  foot 
for  Nevada.  It  was  after  the  first  rains,  and  the  roads  were  a  little 
muddy  and  the  streams  somewhat  swollen.  Near  the  top  of  the  hillf 


68 


>1EA   CULPA. 


just  before  he  began  to  descend  to  the  South  Yuba,  a  deer  ran  across 
the  road.  He  took  out  his  revolver  and  fired  at  it,  but  it  bounded 
on.  He  walked  on  down  the  grade,  building  many  a  castle  in  the 
air,  until  within  less  than  a  quarter  of  a  mile  of  the  river  he  suddenly 
came  across  a  man  lying  in  the  road,  dead.  He  took  hold  of  him, 
and  found  that  while  there  was  no  pulse,  the  body  was  still  warm. 
If  you  ever  traveled  on  that  road  you  will  remember  that  there  is  a 
water  trough  in  a  little  ravine  that  crosses  the  road  about  a  quarter 
of  a  mile  from  the  river.  It  was  not  over  fifty  miles  from  this  that 
the  man  lay.  My  friend  went  back  to  get  a  cup  of  water.  He  took 
the  man's  head  in  bis  lap  and  bathed  his  temples,  but  no  sign  of  life 
appeared.  In  doing  this  his  pistol  fell  from  his  belt  and  dropped  into 
a  pool  of  blood,  and  his  clothes  became  more  or  less  bloody.  He 
started  on,  inter  ding  to  give  the  alarm  at  the  bridge.  He  had  not 
gone  far  when  he  heard  the  voices  of  men  coming  up  the  hill.  For 
the  first  time  he  became  frightened.  His  clothes  were  bloody,  and 
he  would  be  found  alone  with  the  murdered  man.  "Those  men  have 
not  seen  me,"  he  said  to  himself,  "and  I  will  dodge  out  of  the  road  and 
avoid  observation." 

He  had  not  a  momei  t  for  reflection,  but  climbed  out  of  the  road 
on  the  upper  side,  and  from  behind  a  clump  of  bushes  saw  four  men 
pass  by,  and  then  come  to  a  halt  at  the  dead  man.  They  examined 
him  critically.  Then  one  of  them  eaid: 

"We  can  do  this  man  no  good:  besides  this  knock  on  the  head, 
the  ball  has  evidently  pierced  his  heart.  Let  us  capture  the  mur- 
derer. As  we  came  up  the  hill  I  got  a  glimpse  of  a  man  leaving  the 
road." 

My  friend  did  not  hear  this  then,  but  he  heard  it  afterwards.  They 
were  all  armed,  and  two  of  them  carried  Henry  rifles.  While  he  was 
debating  with  himself  the  propriety  of  going  down  and  making  an 
explanation,  he  saw  the  men  preparing  to  move  towards  him.  Two  of 
them  tied  their  horses  and  started  up  the  bank  on  foot,  while  the 
other  two  rode  down  the  hill  where  they  could  get  out  of  the  road  on 
horseback. 

My  friend  then  thought  there  was  nothing  else  to  do  but  keep  out 
of  the  way,  and  he  fled.  For  nearly  half  an  hour  he  eluded  their 
vigilance,  but  at  last  one  of  them  got  sight  of  him,  and  then  a  ball 
from  a  Henry  rifle  came  whizzing  past  him;  but  he  sped  on  down, 


MEA   CULPA.  69 

down  the  hill,  toward  the  canyon  below  the  crossing.  Another  ball 
struck  the  calf  of  his  leg  and  crippled  him,  He  was  then  captured, 
put  upon  one  of  the  hordes  and  carried  back  toward  the  scene  of  the 
murder.  When  they  arrived  there  the  body  was  gone. 

"This  fellow  was  not  alone  in  the  murder,"  said  one.  "He  has 
had  some  accomplice  who  has  boldly  carried  the  body  to  prevent  iden- 
tification and  an  inquest." 

They  found  where  a  man  had  gone  down  the  grade  towards  the 
river,  and  one  of  them  remarked  that,  heavy  as  the  dead  man  was, 
he  had  been  carried  off  by  a  single  man,  as  but  one  track  could  be 
found. 

"It  is  hardly  possible."  said  one,  "that  a  man  could  carry  such  a 
weight  all  the  way  to  the  river,  and  we  shall  find  where  he  has  laid 
the  corpse  down  to  rest." 

As  the  road  and  river  are  nearly  parallel  at  this  point,  it  was  not 
over  a  couple  of  hundred  yards  from  the  road  to  the  river.  It  was 
now  getting  late,  and  twilight  was  coming  on,  but  the  men  were  re- 
warded by  finding  a  pool  of  blood  on  the  ground,  and  from  there 
down  the  steep  incline  to  the  river  they  found  where  the  body  had 
been  dragged  and  thrown  over  a  perpendicular  bank,  some  fifty  feet 
high,  into  the  rapid  current  below. 

The  lateness  of  the  hour  compelled  them  to  give  up  any  further 
search  for  what  they  supposed  to  be  an  accomplice  of  my  friend,  and 
they  carried  him  over  to  Nevada  and  lodged  him  in  jail.  At  the  ex- 
amination before  a  Justice  it  was  shown  that  some  men  working 
near  by  heard  one  shot  at  the  spot  of  the  murder;  one  chamber  of  my 
friend's  pistol  had  been  recently  discharged.  The  dead  man  had  a 
mark  on  his  head  apparently  made  with  the  butt  of  a  pistol;  the  butt 
ot  my  friend's  pistol  was  covered  with  blood.  All  four  men  identified 
the  body  as  that  of — well,  no  matter  about  the  name — who  had  left 
the  bridge  a  short  time  before  with  several  hundred  dollars  in  his 
pocket. 

My  friend  told  his  story;  but  no  one— except  his  mother — believed 
it,  and  he  was  committed  without  bonds.  As  the  Justice  announced 
his  judgment,  my  friend's  mother  gare  one  piercing  shriek  and  fell, 
dead.  It  was  a  broken  blood-vessel,  or  heart  disease  or  something 
of  the  kind;  but  ehe  was  dead,  and  the  prisoner  was  hurried  to  jail, 


70 


MEA    CtLPA. 


and  not  allowed  to  attend  his  mother's  funeral.    She  was   a   widow; 
he  her  only  son. 

He  languished  in  jail  a  couple  of  months  awaiting  the  assembling 
of  the  grand  jury,  but  found  a  chance  to  break  jail.  He  skedaddled, 
and  wandered  around  the  country  in  disguise.  The  family  of  the 
dead  man  was  rich  and  offered  a  large  reward.  I  could  have  gotten 
it  if  I  had  peached  on  my  friend,  even  when  he  was  dying. 

During  the  recital  of  the  story,  the  Major  had  been  much  affected, 
and  during  the  latter  part  of  it  Fiske  had  noticed  it.  When  he  had 
ceased  speaking,  the  Major  sprang  to  his  feet,  strode  up  to  Fiske  and 
exclaimed : 

"Are  you  sure  that  Allen  Campbell  is  dead?  By  the  eternal,  come 
what  may,  justice  shall  be  done." 

"You  are  one  of  those  sneaking,  mercenary  sharks  in  disguise, 
hunting  for  a  reward,  are  you  ?  But  you  can  take  that !" 

The  report  of  a  pistol  rang  out  on  the  evening  air,  the  Major 
staggered  and  fell,  and  Jim  Fiske  left  the  camp  in  the  direction  of 
the  river. 


CHAPTER  II. 

In  an  elegantly  furnished  bed  chamber  a  lady  is  sitting  alone  in 
front  of  a  grate,  in  which  is  burning  a  bright  wood  fire;  the  thumb 
and  forefinger  of  the  right  hand  press  either  temple;  a  solitaire  dia- 
mond ring,  held  on  the  middle  finger  by  a  simple  band  of  gold,  re- 
flects the  light  of  the  fire  and  adds  brilliancy  to  the  scene .  Her  left 
hand  lies^  in  her  lap  clasping  a  roll  of  manuscript,  which  is  more  or 
less  soiled.  The  lady  is  dressed  in  plain  black,  and  the  rings  we 
have  mentioned  are  the  only  ornaments  worn.  The  rain  is  falling  in 
torrents,  and  a  stormy  south  wind  is  driving  it  hard  against  the  win- 
dow near  her  right  side;  but  she  hears  it  not,  neither  does  she  hear  or 
see  the  servant  when  she  enters  and  places  a  lighted  lamp  on  the  ta- 
ble on  which  her  right  elbow  rests.  The  clock  on  the  mantle  strikes 
five;  the  pendulum  swings  back  and  forth,  marking  the  flight  of  time 
with  a  monotonous  tick,  and  once  more  the  clear  tones  of  the  little 
bell  announces  that  another  hour  has  been  added  to  the  dead  past. 
This  woman,  almost  as  motionless  as  a  statue,  is  thinking,  thinking, 
thinking.  Several  years  of  her  life's  history  have  passed  in  review, 
in  her  mental  vision;  a  question  of  some  moment  to  her  has  been 
debated,  and,  as  the  tone  of  the  clock's  stroke  dies  away,  her  fingers 
nervously  grasp  the  manuscript,  and  she  eays  audibly,  "I  will  read/' 
And  she  reads : 

THE    MANUSCRIPT. 

Dead,  yet  living  !  Dead  to  alia  man  may  hold  sacred  on  this  earth; 
dead  to  family,  to  friends;  dead  to  ambition,  dead  to  hopes.  Living 
for  bitter  memories,  for  an  aimless  purpose;  living,  in  fact,  because 
God  wills  the  intensity  of  the  punishment  and  holds  back  the  dagger 
that  might  end  it  all  in  sweet  oblivion.  One  may  court  death,  aye, 
long  for  it,  yet  tremble  at  the  idea  of  self-murder.  While  one  may 
have  forfeited  every  claim  on  God's  goodness  and  mercy,  and  be  void 
of  all  hopes  for  the  world  to  c  )me,  yet  it  seems  an  awful  thing  to  go 
before  the  great  Judge  with  one's  own  blood  on  our  hands.  Oh,  that 
I  could  be  certain  that  death  was  a  blotting-out  of  one's  life;  that 
that  which  we  call  the  soul  of  man  could  end,  like  the  body,  at  the 
grave  !  How  many,  many  times  have  I  been  tempted  to  follow  th 


72  MEA    CULPA. 

advice  of  Job's  wife,  curee  God  and  die;  but  I  am  here,  and  I  suppose 
I  must  listlessly  and  aimlessly  follow  the  thread  to  the  end. 

Why  have  I  commenced  to  write  ?  What  purpose  can  it  serve  ? 
Would  the  pleasure  or  the  pain  predominate  in  writing  down,  just  for 
my  own  eye,  some  of  the  reminiscences  of  the  past?  Pleasure  !  How 
dare  I  talk  of  pleasure.  That's  a  good  joke.  Pleasure!  Dare  I  even 
hope  for  pleasure?  For  ten  long  years  I  have  throttled  every  offort 
of  memory  to  dwell  on  the  past;  but  to-day,  in  the  solitude  of  this 
wilderness,!  feel  an  ungovernable  desire  to  call  up  visions  of  the  past. 
Yes,  I  will  try  the  experiment.  I  will  write  me  down  something  of 
the  pant  and  destroy  the  paper  before  the  eye  of  man  can  see  it. 
Who  knows?  There  may  be  a  bonanza  of  pleasnre  in  it  after  all. 
Let  me  see.  Who  am  I?  From  \vhence  came  I?  I  remember 
myself  fir^t  as  an  orphan  boy  working  for  $5  a  month  during  the  sum- 
mer, and  going  to  the  old-field  school  during  the  winter.  Tho?e  were 
lonely  days.  In  fact  my  life  has  been  a  desert,  with  not  a  single 
bright  oasis  in  aU  its  dreary  length.  As  a  boy,  I  was  subjected  con. 
tinually  to  oppression  and  wrong.  One  year,  when  I  was  about  15, 
I  worked  for  Judge  Underbill.  The  Sundays  and  holidays  of  the 
autumn  were  spent  gathering  nuts,  which  I  intended  to  sell  during 
the  winter  to  increase  my  little  stock,  so  I  could  afford  a  Sunday  suit 
of  clothes.  I  was  going  to  where  I  had  them  stored  in  an  out-house, 
one  day,  when  I  found  the  Judge's  wife  busy  removing  them  to  her 
own  store-room.  I  came  by  on  tbe  outside  of  the  house  in  time  to 
hear  her  little  daughter  say,  "Oh,  mamma,  those  belong  to  John." 

"Never  mind,"  said  the  mother,  "he  is  working  for  us  and  his 
time  is  ours." 

"But,"  persisted  the  little  angel,  "he  gathered  them  on  Sunday; 
then  his  time  was  his  own/' 

Without  noticing  the  last  speech  of  the  little  one,  the  mother  and 
her  elder  daughter  walked  off  loaded  with  my  property.  Tbe  little 
one — God  bless  her  !  God  bless  her  ! — tarried  for  a  minute  or  so,  and 
sobbed  as  though  her  little  heart  would  break,  and  then  walked  off 
to  another  pirt  of  the  elegant  grounds,  and  began  to  play  with  the 
Newfoundland  dog.  I  never  told  that  sweet  little  angel  what  I  had 
seen  and  heard,  but  it  gave  me  something  to  live  for.  I  worked  hard; 
I  studied  bard,  and  the  day  I  was  twenty-one  I  grasped  my  license 
to  practice  law,  signed  by  Judge  Buckner,  the  closest  examiner  in 


MEA   CULPA. 


73 


the  State.  For  some  reason  I  became  popular.  The  year  after  I  reached 
my  majority  Judge  Underbill  was  nominated  for  the  Assembly  by 
the  Democratic  party.  The  county  was  Democratic.  The  Whig 
convention  was  composed  principally  of  young  men,  and  they  put  me 
on  the  ticket  against  the  Judge.  I  began  a  canvass  without  any 
hopes  of  an  election.  I  made  some  happy  speeches.  The  young 
men  of  all  parties  began  to  flock  around  me.  The  old  men  of  my 
party  saw  a  chance  to  get  even  on  their  ancient  enemy,  and  the  can- 
vast?  became  intensely  exciting. 

All  the  years  since  I  had  worked  for  the  Judge  I  had  been  thrown 
more  or  less  in  companionship  with  his  little  daughter  Inez  I  would 
constantly  hear  those  noble  words,  "Those  belong  to  John,"  and  see 
the  image  of  the  little  one  weeping  over  my  wrongs.  I  loved  her  as 
a  superior  being.  Aye,  I  worshiped  her  as  never  Indian  devotee  wor- 
shiped his  idol.  I  had  never  thought  of  making  her  my  wife.  In 
fact,  while  she  was  growing  up  and  budding  out  into  womanhood,  I 
looked  upon  her  still  as  my  little  angel. 

One  evening,  when  the  canvass  was  beginning  to  get  very  warm, 
I  met  Inez  at  a  party.  We  danced  together,  and  then  somehow 
found  ourselves  out  on  the  veranda  alone. 

"Do  you  know,  John,"  she  said,  as  she  hung  confidently  on  my 
arm,  "that  this  political  contest  is  very  unfortunate.  My  father 
thinks- that  you  are  going  to  beat  him,  and  he  is  furious.  He  looks 
upon  it  as  an  indignity  to  put  a  mere  boy  against  him  and  then  defeat 
him.  I  wish,  John,,  for  my  pake,  you  were  out  of  it." 

"I  would  die  for  your  sake,  Inez,"  I  said  vehemently. 

"I  know  you  would,  John  Henderson,"  she  replied  caressingly. 
"There  has  not  been  a  time  since  I  was  12  years  old  you  would  not 
have  done  that." 

"And  how  did  my  idol  know  that  I  bad  been  worshiping  it  all  these 
years  T 

"Know  it!  You  great,  big,  awkward  booby!  You  did  not  think 
I  was  blind,  did  you?  Haven't  I  seen  what  was  spurring  you  on  to 
such  extraordinary  exertion  ?  I  have  seen  you  look  happy  so  often 
when  I  have  given  you  a  word  of  encouragement  or  a  smile  of  ap- 
proval." 

"And  can  it  be  possible,  Inez   Underbill,"  I   said   excitedly,  with 


74  MEA  CULPA. 

my  heart  almost  choking  me,  "that  you  love  me,  the  orphan  boy, 
without  fortune  or  family  connection?" 

" Why,  of  course  I  do.  You  did  not  expect  I  loved  somebody's 
fortune  or  family  connection,  did  you?  Oh,  I  have  been  awful 
proud  of  my  big,  gawky,  talented  lover  when  I  could  see  that  he  had 
set  me  up  as  his  queen,  high  above  all  the  world.  Don't  you  know 
your  first  political  speech,  when  you  took  the  town  by  storm,  was 
made  entirely  to  me  ?  You  were  not  caring  a  fig  what  anybody  else 
thought  of  it.  I  knew  by  experience  that  I  could  bring  you  out  by 
looks  of  encouragement,  and  I  took  that  particular  seat  I  there  occu- 
pied to  be  able  to  do  it.  No  man  ever  looked  more  searchingly  back 
under  the  shadows  of  a  sun-bonnet  for  tokens  of  encouragement,  and 
as  each  smile  of  approval  brought  forth  new  bursts  of  eloquence  from 
the  boy-speaker  that  shook  the  house  from  center  to  circumference 
with  applause,  I  concluded  that  no  one  ever  got  more  encourage, 
ment  from  under  a  bonnet!  You  have  your  idol,  John  Henderson, 
as  I  have  mine.  People  who  bow  to  idols  must  expect  to  offer  sacri- 
fices.  Let  us  see  which  will  be  the  truest  in  his  worship!" 

<fThen  the  first  sacrifice  shall  be  mine.  I  will  go  out  of  this 
canvass." 

"I  am  not  certain/'  said  my  little  idol,  "that  you  can  do  so  hon- 
orably. As  for  the  honor  of  being  elected,  you  and  I  could  forego 
that;  but  we  cannot  afford  to  do  anything  not  strictly  in  the  line  of 
honorable  dealings  with  man.  I  understand  enough  of  politics  to 
know  that  you  are  leading  your  ticket,  and  that  there  are  others  who 
expect  you  to  pull  them  through." 

"When  I  accepted  the  nomination  I  did  not  expect  to  stand  a 
ghost  of  a  show  of  election,  and  never  once  dreamed  of  making 
your  father  angry.  1  thought  I  would  make  a  little  canvass  as  an 
advertisement  for  the  little  office  across  the  way,  that  you  must  un- 
derstand is  not  crowded  as  yet  with  wealthy  clients." 

"I  know  just  how  that  all  came  about,  and  I  was  foolish  enough 
to  become  elated,  too;  but  since  matters  have  taken  the  turn  they 
have,  I  find  it  rather  uncomfortable  to  have  my  idol  dissected  every 
day  by  some  member  of  my  own  family.  It  must  all  go  straight 
along  now.  Vex  my  father  as  little  as  possible,  and  we  will  have  to 
trust  to  luck  and  a  little  good  management  for  the  balance." 

Conscious  of  the  fact  that  we  would  be  missed,  we  sauntered  back 


MEA    CULPA.  75 

to  the  ball  room.  Inez  was  instantly  claimed  for  a  dance,  and  I  was 
left  to  my  own  reflections. 

I  was  in  ecstacies  of  delight  and  dejected  by  turns.  The  being  in 
whom  my  whole  soul  was  wrapped  was  mine,  but  I  was  so  poor  aa 
to  be  hardly  able  to  take  care  of  myself.  What  would  I  do  with  a 
wife  reared  in  the  lap  of  luxury  ?  I  could  not  entertain  the  idea  of 
becoming  a  pensioner  of  her  father.  What  could  I  do  ?  I  wished  I 
was  well  out  of  this  cursed  political  race.  I  felt  that  I  must  work — 
that  I  could  not  give  time  to  complete  the  canvass  or  to  serve  if  elected. 

At  my  next  appointment,  after  finishing  the  political  part  of  my 
speech,  I  said:  "Gentlemen,  when  I  was  nominated  I  did  not  expect 
to  be  elected,  and,  as  God  is  my  judge,  I  have  no  desire  to  be  now. 
I  have  had  no  experience,  and  my  judgment  would  be  at  fault  in  a 
hundred  contingencies  sure  to  arise.  I  am  as  yet  a  boy.  On  the 
other  hand,  my  opponent  is  a  gentleman  of  mature  years,  of  large 
experience,  of  scholarly  attainments  and  ripe  judgment.  He  is  ac- 
quainted with  all  the  public  men  of  the  State,  and  his  influence  in 
carrying  local  measures  would  be  very  great ." 

I  then  represented  myself  as  an  humble  advocate  of  the  grand  old 
Whig  party,  but  as  one  who  did  not  wish  to  be  placed  above  his 
years  in  merit.  The  speech  was  well  received,  but  I  was  assured 
that  it  made  me  many  votes.  The  Judge  was  furious  when  he  heard 
of  it,  and  said  that  that  upstart  of  a  boy  had  been  so  certain  of  his 
election  that  he  could  afford  to  patronize  him.  When  I  met  him  he 
was  coldly  formal.  I  tried  to  explain  how  I  happened  to  accept  the 
nomination.  I  assured  him  that  I  did  not  wish  to  be  elected . 

"Then,  sir,"  eaid  he,  "why  don't  you  withdraw?" 

"Judge  Underbill,"  I  eaid,  "I  have  on  more  than  one  occasion 
looked  to  you  for  advice  as  to  a  father.  If  you  will  lay  aside  any 
feeling  you  may  have  in  the  matter,  and  will,  with  an  unprejudiced 
mind,  view  the  situation  and  advise  me  as  you  would  a  son  under  the 
circumstances,  I  will  follow  your  advice." 

"Fudge!  All  hypocrisy  and  deceit .  Why  should  you  desire  to 
gave  my  feelings  in  the  matter?  Why  would  any  young  man  be 
willing  to  forego  such  a  triumph  as  an  election  under  such  circum- 
stances  ?  I  will  not  believe  you  sincere,  sir,  unless  I  can  see  some 
motive." 

"lean  show  you  that  also.     I  love  Inez  Underbill;  she  loves  me, 


76  MEA   CULPA. 

and  we  expect  to  be  made  one  some  of  these  days.  I  know  that  this 
situation  is  disagreeable  to  her,  and  I  would  sacrifice  anything,  gave 
honor,  for  her  sake." 

The  Judge  turned  pale  with  anger,  and  it  was  a  full  minute  be- 
fore he  spoke.  Then  he  said,  with  a  cuiling  lip  and  bitter  sarcasm  in 
his  voice:  "Pray,  then,  why  did  you  put  yourself  and  Inez  Under- 
bill (without  the  formalities)  in  such  a  predicament  ?" 

* 'Because,  sir,  I  did  not  expect  to  be  elected." 

''And  you  count  yourself  already  elected  now,  do  you?" 

"I  hope  I  shall  not  be;  but,  Judge,  you  are  aware  of  the  fact  that 
the  probabilities  of  it  are  very  strong." 

" And  when,  may  I  ask,  do  you  expect  to  make  my  daughter  a 
beggar  ?" 

"Never,  sir!     Never!" 

"Ah,  you  are  a  man  of  fortune,  then;  your  pretense  of  poverty 
has  been  only  for  effect !" 

"I  do  not  intend  to  claim  her,  sir,  until  I  can  offer  her  a  home." 

"When  a  child  of  mine,"  said  the  Judge,  angrily,  "contracts  an 
alliance  with  a  beggar  without  consulting  me,  she  must  renounce  it, 
or  no  longer  seek  shelter  in  my  house. " 

"Beggar,  Judge  Underbill!  Beggar?"  I  exclaimed, no  longer  able 
to  conceal  or  control  my  anger.  "When,  sir,  did  John  Henderson 
ever  receive  a  single  dollar  he  did  not  earn,  and  earn  honorably,  too  ?" 

The  Judge  tuined  on  his  heel  and  walked  away.  At  the  election 
I  had  a  large  majority  of  votes.  I  had  no  further  conversation  with 
the  Judge,  and  had  not  met  Inez.  In  fact,  I  did  not  like  tfo  meet 
her,  as  it  would  only  serve  to  make  her  father  more  angry,  and  I 
supposed  from  the  fact  of  not  hearing  from  her,  that  he  was  not  in 
earnest  about  driving  her  from  his  roof,  if  she  did  not  renounce  her 
lover.  After  the  election  I  was  called  down  into  Tennessee  to  attend 
a  protracted  trial,  and  did  not  return  home  until  a  few  days  before 
the  convening  of  the  Legislature.  I  saw  Inez  once,  and  asked  her  if 
her  father  had  talked  to  her  about  our  engagement,  nnd  she  said  he 
had  not.  Thinking  it  best  not  to  trouble  lie'-  about  it,  I  simply  said 
that  we  had  talked  some  on  the  subject. 

After  I  bad  been  in  Frankfort  about  a  month  I  was  astonished  TO 
see  Inez  in  company  with  an  aunt  of  h»  r*  in  the  lobby  of  the  Assem- 
bly chamber.  I  went  out  to  see  them,  and  was  going  to  escort  them 


ME A    CULPA.  77 

to  a  seat  on  the  floor,  when  the  aunt  whispered,  "Poor  Inez  is  in 
trouble;  let  us  walk  down  towards  the  hotel."  Of  course  I  knew  in- 
etantly  what  was  the  matter. 

"Well,"  said  Inez,  when  we  reached  the  street,  "father  and  I  had 
a  little  discussion  the  other  day,  which  ended  in  my  being  at  your 
side.  My  sacrifice  has  come  first.  Aunt  Helen,  here,  is  very  kind 
and  offers  me  a  home,  but  I  come  to  consult  you  about  what  I  am  to 
do  with  myself;  you  are  my  legal  adviser,  you  know." 

"Sweet  one,"  I  said  "the  world  is  before  us — we  will  make  a  liv- 
ing some  way.  I  am  getting  the  munificent  sum  of  $3  a  day  from 
the  commonwealth  of  Kentucky;  but  that  lasts  only  a  few  weeks 
longer."  We  walked  on  in  silence  to  the  hotel,  and  when  seated  in 
our  room,  Aunt  Helen  said:  "My  children,  I  love  you  both  very 
dearly,  and  I  think  I  can  come  to  your  rescue  without  wounding 
the  feelings  of  either.  In  the  first  place,  I  could  offer  Inez  a  home 
with  me,  but  her  staying  with  me  as  Miss  Underbill,  and  not  visiting 
her  home,  would  occasion  remarks  which  might  be  detrimental  and 
unpleasant  to  her,  and  hence  we  must  have  a  wedding — a  very  quiet 
little  wedding.  I  will  then  make  some  advance  of  money  to  John 
Henderson,  which  he  can  pay  at  his  convenience.  It  shall  be  strictly 
a  business  transaction." 

"Or,  belter  still,"  I  said,  "if  you  will  board  my  wife  until  I  go  to 
California  and  make  a  raise,  I  think  I  can  remit  from  the  very  start." 

"That  shall  be  as  you  please." 

There  was  a  quiet  wedding  that  evening  in  the  parlors  of  the  hotel. 
Aunt  Helen  concluded  to  remain  with  us  until  the  end  of  the  season. 
I  began  to  make  ready  for  my  departure  for  California.  In  four  or 
five  weeks  after  our  marriage  came  the  adjournment.  My  wife  and 
her  aunt  \\eut  to  the  house  of  the  latter. 

This  was  1852 — eighteen  long  years  ago  !  Oh,  Inez  !  Inez  !  how  I 
loved  you  !  How  I  love  your  memory  still  !  But  for  ten  years  until 
this  very  day — I  have  not  allowed  myself  to  think  of  her — her  name 
has  not  escaped  my  lips.  How  happy  we  could  have  been  but  for — 
me!  Yes,  mea  culpa,  mea  culpa,  mea  maxima  culpa!  But  I  cannot 
think  long  of  her.  I  would  go  wild  and  throw  myself  into  the  Sac- 
ramento, and  drown  memory  with  a  worthle?s  carcass.  Shall  I  tear 
up  this  paper  here  and  indulge  in  no  more  bitter,  bitter  memories  *? 
Well,  here  we  go  to  California.  Accursed  be  the  day  I  ever  heard 


78  MEA   CULPA. 

the  name  California  spoken.  It  has  brought  ruin  to  me  and  to  mine. 
And  I  am  but  a  walking  image  of  tens  of  thousands  more.  Of  all  the 
ills  of  Pandora's  box,  the  thirst  for  gold  has  brought  moet  misery  to 
men.  Men  say  they  want  gold  to  buy  pleasures  with.  Pleasure 
may  be  bought  with  gold,  but  it  has  bought  more  misery  than  pleas- 
ure. It  has  ;  t  times  been  an  implement  of  civilization,  but  it  brings 
with  it  the  inevitable  seeds  of  sin,  of  crime,  of  destruction.  The 
more  gold  there  is  sown  on  the  field  of  civilization,  the  more  of  the 
tares  of  destruction  must  fall  upon  the  soil.  I  fancied  that  happiness 
— "our  being,  end  and  aim" — sat  upon  a  golden  throne,  and  that 
none  need  woo  her  except  with  an  offer  of  gold.  I  made  the  com- 
mon mistake,  and  have  paid  the  penalty  thereof. 

When  I  got  to  California — this  land  of  gold — this  land  of  wretch 
ed  hopes,  suicides,  and  drunkards'  graves,  I  could  not  think  of  wait 
ing  to  build  up  a  fortune  by  the  slow  process  of  professional  life 
Every  day  away  from  the  side  of  my  angelic  wife  seemed  a  year, 
must  make  money  quick,  and  get  back  to  her.  I  therefore  wen 
into  the  mines — the  accursed  mines! 

When  I  left  my  wife  1  told  her  that  I  should  be  satisfied  to  return 
with  ten  thousand  dollars,  if  I  could  get  no  more  in  three  years',  but 
she  need  not  expect  me  until  I  had  at  least  that  amount.  On  the 
steamer  coming  out  I  had  fallen  in  with  one  Tom  Allen,  a  regular 
'49  miner,  who  had  made  some  money  and  was  returning  from  a  vis- 
it to  his  friends  in  "the  States."  He  told  me  about  what  a  big  time 
he  had,  and  how  he  spent  or  gave  away  his  money,  because,  he  said, 
"I  know  just  where  to  go  and  dig  plenty  more." 

When  I  told  him  who  I  was  and  where  I  was  from,  he  familiarly 
called  me  "Kentuck,"  and  said  I  would  find  that  all  the  boys  had 
nicknames  up  in  the  mines. 

"I  fell  in,"  he  said,  "with  a  lot  of  Missourian?,  and  because  I 
was  from  Massachusets  they  called  me  'Yank/  although  I  am  not 
one  of  those  blue-bellied  chaps  you  find  up  in  Connecticut." 

Before  we  left  the  steamer  the  mining  firm  of  "Yank  &  Kentuck" 
was  formed,  and  the  exact  spot  maiked  out  where  we  were  to  take 
out  our  everlasting  pile. 

Poor  Yank,  a  better  heart  never  beat  in  the  breast  of  man,  but  he 
came  to  California  too  soon! 

We  purchased  our  mining  outfit  at   Marysville,  and    perched  on 


MEA    (JULPA.  79 

top  of  a  Concord  coach  we  struck  out  for  the  mountains.  Up  the 
hill-side  we  went,  past  mining  camps  and  up  among  the  tali  pines. 
When  at  the  summit  Yank  announced  that  our  stage-ride  was  at  an 
end,  and  we  must  take  it  on  foot.  We  had  a  couple  of  sacks  of 
flour,  four  pairs  of  blankets,  a  side  of  bacon,  a  ham,  pick,  two  shov- 
els, a  couple  of  rifles,  pistols,  nails,  an  ax,  hammer,  saw  and  some 
fifty  pounds  of  et  ceteras,  such  as  salt,  saleratus,  etc. 

"Now,"  said  Yank,  "we  will  just  take  them  little  traps  on  our 
backs  and  strike  off  toward  the  Feather.  It  is  only  five  miles  down 
there.  We  can  make  it  before  night." 

Just  about  dark  we  reached  the  river,  tired  and  worn  out,  for  the 
descent  had  been  fearfully  steep. 

"This  is  the  spot,"  said  Yank,  "  where  we. are  to  make  our  pile. 
Prospected  here  before  I  went  away.  Nobody  been  here  since  I've 
been  gone.  If  the  winter  don't  set  in  loo  soon  you  can  go  back  to 
that  little  wife  of  yourn  by  Christmas." 

Having  confidence  in  my  companion's  words  I  slept  soundly  on  this 
my  first  night  in  the  mines,  and  dreamed  of  a  happy  "old  Kentucky 
home." 

Next  morning,  as  I  was  a  good  hand  with  an  ax,  I  set  to  work 
getting  out  material  for  a  shanty,  while  Yank  went  prospecting  for 
the  best  place  to  begin  mining  operations.  By  night  he  had  collect- 
ed in  all  about  an  ounce  of  dust,  the  result  of  his  pannug  around  in 
different  places.  "With  a  Long  Tom,"  said  he,  "we  can  take  out  at 
least  two  hundred  dollars  a  day.  Only  a  hundred  days  to  get  your 
ten  thousand,  my  boy." 

I  was  overjoyed,  and  felt  a  full  confidence  in  being  the  "luckiest  of 
men.  "My  good  angel  and  Inez's  good  angel,"  I  thought,  "sent 
this  treasure  of  a  partner  across  my  track." 

In  five  days  we  had  our  cabin  built  and  everything  ready  for 
mining  in  good  earnest.  On  Sunday  I  wrote  to  Inez  a  letter,  giving 
an  exact  account  of  the  situation,  and  walked  up  the  hill  to  the 
stage  road  to  send  it  out.  In  a  fortnight  or  so  prospectors  began  to 
call  on  us,  and  eoon  shanties  began  to  spring  up  around  us.  Min- 
ing laws  were  made,  and  we  were  restricted  as  to  our  claims.  In 
couple  of  months  we  had  taken  out  about  ten  thousand  dollars  and  I 
sent  two  thousand  dollars  to  Inez. 

"There/*  I  eaid  proudly,  as  I  saw  the  stage  leaving  with  the  check, 


80  MEA    CULPA. 

" my  wife  need  not  be  a  beggar  any  more.  She  can  live  on  that 
until  I  get  home."  Would  to  God  that  I  had  followed  it !  Bat  I 
did  not. 

Our  claim  did  not  pay  so  well.  We  dropped  down  to  about  thirty 
dollars  a  day,  and  we  both  became  dissatisfied.  But  still  we  had 
taken  out  a  great  deal  of  money.  One  day,  along  in  September, 
Yank  came  into  the  cabin,  as  I  was  placing  dinner  on  the  table,  and 
said:  "Look  here,  Kentuck,  I  have  been  prospecting  a  little  and 
making  some  figures.  If  we  could  turn  the  river  a  little  with  a 
wing- dam  just  below  our  claim,  we  could  take  out  a  bushel  of  gold. 
It  will  cost  some  money  to  do  it,  but  we  have  now  about  twelve 
thousand  dollars,  and  we  can  turn  her  nicely  for  that  sum.  We  will 
say  nothing  about  that  small  sum  sent  to  the  little  wife,  but  what  is 
here  belongs  to  both  of  us." 

After  dinner  we  went  to  the  river  and  figured  out  just  how  we 
could  turn  it.  We  hired  all  the  men  we  could  and  put  them  to  work. 
Yank  was  almost  as  large  in  stature  as  myself,  and  had  been  brought 
up  to  work,  and  we  worked,  too. 

No  two  men  ever  did  more  work  in  the  same  time  than  we  did, 
and  we  were  wet  all  over  from  morning  till  night.  In  about  six 
weeks  all  our  money  was  gone,  but  we  had  the  river  turned.  The 
first  day  we  took  out  over  one  thousand  dollars,  and  had  a  regular 
jollification  in  the  cabin  that  night.  The  miners  all  flocked  in  to  con- 
gratulate us,  and  they  were  all  true  and  sincere  in  what  they  did 
and  said.  I  do  not  believe  there  was  one  in  that  camp  that  envied 
us .  But  while  the  congratulations  were  going  on  it  began  to  cloud 
up,  and  by  morning  it  was  pouring  down  rain;  but  we  worked  in  it 
all  day,  and  several  of  our  friends  volunteered  to  help  us,  so  that  we 
cleaned  out  about  two  thousand  dollars  that  day.  The  next  day  we 
went  to  the  site  of  our  works,  only  to  find  them  all  gone  ! 

"Never  mind,"  said  my  jolly  partner,  "the  gold  is  there,  and  we 
will  commence  on  it  earlier  next  year.  It  knocks  your  going  home 
for  Christmas,  though,  pard  !" 

We  found  we  could  not  work  our  claim  on  account  of  the  water, 
and  finally  concluded  that  we  would  go  out  to  Marysville  to  spend 
the  winter.  When  we  got  there  I  found  a  letter  announcing  the 
birth  of  a  daughter. 

That  daughter  is  perhaps  still  living.     She  is  a  yonng  lady,   yet 


MEA   CULPA,  81 

for  ten  years  I  have  not  dared  to  seek  to  know  one  word  of  her.  If 
she  is  living,  she  thinks  her  father  dead,  as  he  should  be.  I  have 
not  dared  to  think  of  her;  but  oh  God  !  what  a  yearning  seizes  me 
to  see  that  child.  For  the  last  few  days  I  have  imagined  she  was 
near  me.  Sometimes  I  have  started  and  turned,  expecting  to  see  her 
— but  I  never  will !  I  never  will  ! 

"Look  here,  Kentuck,"  said  Yank,  on  Christmas  day,  "you  had 
better  take  them  slugs  ($50  pieces).  I  am  no  good  banker  any  more 
In  trying  to  make  expenses  off  the  monte  bank  last  night  I  sank  all 
the  balance." 

I  was  disappointed  and  somewhat  provoked,  but  of  course  said 
nothing.  Our  claim  up  in  the  mountains  was  Worth  a  great  deal  of 
money,  and  we  would  work  in  the  spring.  But  why  had  I  not  tak- 
en that  same  money  when  I  first  came  down,  and  gone  to  see  the 
baby?  I  saw  there  was  a  great  opening  for  me  in  my  profeesion  at 
Marysville,  and  when  I  mentioned  it  to  Yank  he  urged  it  very 
strongly.  "Send  for  the  wife,"  he  said.  "She  can  come  on  what 
you  sent  her  before,  and  I  will  go  up  to  the  claim  in  the  spring  and 
take  out  half  a  million  or  so^  in  no  time*" 

The  secret  of  my  not  doing  this  was  thut  I  wanted  to  take  out  that 
half  million  or  so,  and  go  back  to  my  old  home  and  show  what  I  had 
made  under  Judge  Underbill's  nose.  This  was  a  wrong  feeling,  and 
some  over-ruling  providence  may  be  punishing  me  for  it  now. 

The  early  spring  found  us  upon  our  mining  claim  making  ready  for 
our  wing  dam.  We  had  not  a  cent  of  money,  and  had  to  work  our 
placer  claims  to  pay  expenses,  and  do  most  of  our  preparations  for 
our  winding  dam  ourselves.  We  had  offers  of  partnership  by  men 
who  had  money,  but  we  preferred  to  carry  it  ourselves.  By  the 
middle  of  August  we  had  the  river  turned  and  commenced  to  take 
out  the  gold.  We  took  out  easily  from  one  to  two  thousand  dollars 
a  day. 

While  at  work  at  this  we  conceived  the  idea  of  carrying  the  entire 
river  in  a  flume  through  a  canyon  below  our  claim.  The  more  we 
thought  of  it  and  discussed  it,  the  more  practical  it  seemed.  The 
bottom  of  the  canyon  we  argued  was  like  the  bottom  of  a  sluice  box; 
every  little  corner  would  gather  in  the  gold.  We  said  nothing  about 
this,  however,  until  we  had  worked  our  claim  out,  which  was  in  the 


82  ME  A    CTJLPA. 

first  part  of  September.  We  had  then  sixty  thousand  dollars.  We 
were  certain  that  with  this  sum  of  money  and  our  own  work  we  could 
flume  the  river  in  a  month — long  before  the  rains. 

I  argued  with  myself  that  as  I  had  three  times  the  sum  that  I  had 
made  up  my  mind  to  be  satisfied  with,  I  ought  to  go  home,  but  Yank 
was  so  enthusiastic  over  our  project  that  I  did  not  mention  it  to  him. 

"Now,"  said  Yank,  one  morning,  "let's  begin  our  flume.  We 
will  make  out  a  bill  of  lumber,  and  get  out  the  pquare  timbers  while 
it  is  being  sawed.  The  mill  just  above  us  has  just  been  completed, 
you  know.  But  I  was  thinking,  Kentuck,  that  it  will  take  about 
all  our  money  to  make  a  proper  success  of  our  flume,  and  he  had  bet- 
ter make  a  small  remittance  to  the  wife  and  baby.  Suppose  we  send 
them  a  thousand,  and  this  fall,  when  we  clear  up  our  claim,  and  get 
half  a  million  or  so,  we  will  go  back.  Durned  if  I  don't  want  to  see 
'em  about  as  bad  as  you  do." 

For  more  than  a  year  this  man  and  myself  had  been  as  inseparable 
as  the  Siamese  twins.  Every  night  we  slept  together;  at  every  meal 
we  ate  together;  and  when  not  at  work,  we  read  to  each  other  or 
talked  together.  The  greatest  joy  either  had  was  in  the  other's  so- 
ciety. All  expenses,  every  remittance  to  my  wife,  was  from  a  com- 
mon fund . 

Often  when  I  have  been  tempted  to  curse  the  world  and  swear 
there  was  no  truth,  no  disinterested  friendship  in  man,  I  have  thought 
of  Yank — noble,  true-hearted  Yank — and  have  repressed  its  utter- 
ance. 

The  eyes  of  the  miners  opened  wide  when  our  plans  began  to  de- 
velop themselves,  and  all  prophesied  success.  We  therefore  went 
boldly  on  with  it.  We  could  have  sold  out  for  many  thousands  ad- 
vance before  the  work  was  completed,  but  the  spirit  of  enterpriRe,  or 
of  madnees,  whichever  it  might  be  called,  seized  each  of  us.  The 
work  was  begun,  the  flume  was  finished  and  carried  the  water  beauti- 
fully— but,  when  we  went  into  the  dry  bed  for  the  gold,  it  was  not 
there.  All  our  money  was  gone,  and  we  were  in  debt.  We  bad  the 
bed  of  the  creek,  or  river,  as  it  was  called,  and  a  flume.  When  we 
realized  the  whole  truth  of  the  situation,  we  went  to  our  cabin. 

Tears  stood  in  the  eyes  of  my  big-hearted  partner,  and  as  he  threw 
hie  arms  around  my  neck  he  sobbed  out,  "It  is  not  for  myself,  Ken- 
tnck,  that  I  am  a-caring;  it  is  for  the  wife  and  baby.  God  knows  1 


ME A   CULPA.  83 

would  lay  down  my  life  this  minute  to  put   you  in    possession   of   as 
much  gold  as  we  had  six  weeks  ago/' 

"Never  mind,  old   boy,"  I  said,  "we    will  make   it  up    again;  I 
don't  care  anything  about  it."     But  my  voice  belied  my  words,  for 
too,  was  thinking  of  the  little  wife  and  baby. 

"You  have  told  me  your  fire t  lie  Kentuck.  You  not  only  care, 
but  your  heart  is  breaking,  all  on  account  of  the  time  for  seeing  your 
wife  and  biby  being  pDstponed.  But  come,  cheer  up  old  pard — it  is 
mighty  strange  it  two  great  big,  stout  chaps  like  you  and  me  can't 
make  a  living  for  one  little  woinau  and  her  baby.  And  the  next  ten 
thousand  we  get  yon  sball  take  it  back,  and  if  1  can't  make  it  by 
myself!  will  come  and  live  with  you.  We  must  now  go  further  out 
in  the  mountains  prospecting.  There  is  nothing  around  here  anymore; 
and,  Kentuck,  to  quiet  your  mind,  I  will  promise  that  if  anything 
happens  to  you  I  will  work  my  fingers  off  for  that  little  wife  of  yours. 
I  have  no  one  to  care  for  but  one  sister  back  in  Massachusetts,  and 
she  has  been  married  several  yeare,  and  I  did  pretty  well  by  her 
when  I  was  back  there,  you  know;  gave  her  all  I  had. " 

Well,  we  packed  up  our  blankets,  strapped  them  and  a  prospecting 
outfit  on  our  backs,  and  struck  out.  We  tramped,  tramped,  over 
mountains,  rivers  and  canyons,  fordiys  and  weeks,  but  found  noth- 
ing that  suited  us.  We  struck  several  places  where  we  could  make 
ten  or  twelve  dollars  a  day,  but  we  were  after  something  better. 
When  winter  overtook  us  we  were  high  up  in  the  Sierras.  When 
we  found  we  were  about  to  be  snowed  in  we  built  ua  a  rude  cabin 
and  wintered  beneath  the  snow. 

I  began  here,  during  this  long  night,  to  get  discouraged;  to  imag- 
ine that  I  had  had  my  opportunity  and  had  failed  to  grasp  it.  I  be- 
gan to  think  that  "there  is  a  tide  in  the  affairs  of  men,  which,  taken 
at  its  flood,  leads  on  to  fortune,"  and  I  argued  that  if  that  tide  is 
missed  it  will  never  come  again. 

AB  soon  as  the  snow  melted  off  sufficiently  we  struck  out  again  on 
our  prospecting  tour.  Of  course  I  sought  the  earliest  opportunity  to 
write  to  the  dear  little  wife  to  account  for  my  long  silence.  We 
struck  over  on  the  North  Yuba,  and  there  found  a  claim  out  of 
which  we  took  several  hundred  dollars  in  a  few  days,  and  we  were 
much  elated;  but  it  "patered  out"  before  we  had  as  much  as  one 
thousand  dollars.  The  depth  of  my  discouragement,  as  we  pulled  up 


84 


MEA    GULP  A. 


to  leave  this  place,  can  hardly  be  imagined.     "If  we  can  find  a  claim 
where  we  can  get  ten  dollars  a  day  each,  let  us  stick  to  it,"  I  said. 

"That  would  take  it  about  two  years  longer  to  get  back  to  the 
little  wife  and  baby,"  said  Yank.  "It  won't  do.  There  are  better 
diggings  in  California,  and  we  must  find  them." 

And  we  resumed  our  tramp  again.  It  would  seem  that  the  rich 
strikes  were  being  made  just  ahead  all  the  while,  and  we  nattered 
ourselves  that  it  would  be  our  turn  pretty  soon.  If  we  had  only 
looked  about  us  we  would  have  seen  hundreds  of  others  tramping 
around  following  the  same  Jack-o'-the-lantern. 

I  felt  discouraged  beyond  measure,  but  could  not  make  up 
my  mind  to  give  it  up.  I  could  not  think  of  taking  the 
time  to  go  to  some  place  and  build  up  a  practice  at  the 
law.  It  might  require  years  at  that  business  to  make  the 
money  1  wanted.  And,  when  I  felt  tempted  to  go  back  without 
it,  I  could  eee  in  my  imagination  a  sarcastic  smile  on  Judge 
Underbill's  face  and  hear  him  say  in  most  withering  tones,  "I  told 
you  so." 

Another  whole  year  passed  by  and  we  were  still  hunting  for  that 
better  mining  claim  in  which  we  were  to  make  our  fortune.  The  regu- 
lar letters  we  got  from  the  dear,  dear  little  wife,  always  full  of  en- 
couragement, and  an  occasional  one  from  Yank's  sister,  kept  us  from 
becoming  bar-room  loungers,  as  too  many  of  those  who  set  out  "to 
find  better  claims"  about  the  time  we  did  had  already  become.  Our 
remittance  to  the  wife  bad  now  come  down  to  $50  and  $100  ai  a  time 
and  they  were  far  between.  I  got  ashamed  to  write  the  same,  same 
old  story  over  again,  and  my  letters  home  became  less  frequent.  Not 
that  I  had  ceased  to  love,  to  idolize  my  dear  wife,  but  when  I  had 
nothing  to  tell  but  failure  I  could  not  write.  In  the  summer  of  1856 
we  struck  a  claim  on  the  south  Yuba  that  began  to  pay  us  fair  wages 
and  we  concluded  to  stick  to  it.  One  unlucky  day  he  went  to  San 
Juan.  "I  am  going  to  take  $100,"  said  Yank,  "and  try  the  little 
wife's  luck  at  monte.  If  we  lose  that  amount  it  won't  hurt  ue,  and 
if  we  win  it  shall  go  to  her." 

I  expos  ulated,  but  it  did  no  good,  and  into  the  monte  game  we 
went.  Yank  put  the  one  hundred  dollars  on  the  card  and  won.  He 


MEA    CULPA.  85 

then  staked  the  two  hundred  dollars,  then  the  four  hundred  dollars, 
and  then  the  eight  hundred.  Each  bet  was  won.  The  excitement 
around  the  table  became  intense.  "Once  more,"  exclaimed  Yank; 
"five  successive  winnings  is  not  impossible.  Here  goes  the  sixteen 
on  the  queen  of  hearts/' 

Yank  had  looked  the  dealer  constantly  in  the  eye  since  the  first 
bet.  This  time  he  pulled  the  cards  off  until  he  found  that  the  queen 
of  hearts  must  be  the  winning  card.  Then  he  held  the  pack  in  his 
hand  and  said,  "You  cannot  bet  that  way.  Take  your  sixteen  hun- 
dred and  go." 

"Thirty-two  or  nothing,"  exclaimed  Yank.  "Pull  out  that  other 
card.  I  have  seen  it,  and  know  what  it  is." 

"I  will  not,"  said  the  gambler. 

"Then  I  will,"  and  Yank  seized  the  dock  aud  exhibited  the  queen 
of  hearts  to  the  crowd .  A  cheer  went  round  the  house,  but  with  it 
the  sharp  report  or  a  pistol.  I  was  on  the  other  side  of  the  table, 
and  saw  my  faithful  friend  fall.  I  was  not  armed,  but  1  seized  a 
chair  aud  struck  the  gambler  on  the  head.  The  crowd  tried  to  inter- 
fere, but  I  used  the  chair  so  furiously  that  no  one  dared  to  approach. 
I  broke  it  to  pieces  over  the  gambler,  and  then  with  my  boot  heel 
mashed  in  his  skull. 

Talk  about  emotional  insanity  !  I  was  as  mad  as  any  lunatic  that 
ever  wore  a  straight-jacket.  I  felt  that  I  was  strong  enough  to  pull 
the  house  to  pieces.  Several  shots  were  fired  at  me  by  the  friends  of 
the  dead  gambler,  but  none  took  effect.  I  felt  that  I  was  bullet- 
proof. If  repentance  is  necessary  to  salvation,  I  am  afraid  I  shall 
never  be  saved,  for  that  is  the  great  and  only  crime  of  my  life  unre- 
pented  of,  and  I  am  afraid  it  will  always  remain  so.  I  took  my  dead 
friend  in  my  arms  and  wept  like  a  child.  I  saw,  in  my  boyhood,  my 
father  and  then  my  loved  mother  laid  in  the  grave ;  but  1  had  never 
had  my  heart-strings  go  completely  torn  asunder  as  now.  It  came 
so  sudde.i,  so  unexpacted,  upon  me,  that  I  was  overwhelmed  as  by 
an  avalanche. 

There  was  but  one  other  that  I  loved  better  than  my  poor  dead 
friend,  and  I  loved  both  better  than  my  life.  He  had  been  tried  in 
prosperity,  tried  in  poverty.  In  all  our  privations  for  years  it  had 
been  a  pleasure  for  him  to  endure  more  than  his  share.  I  had  never  a 
thought  that  was  kept  secret  from  him.  He  knew  all  my  hopes,  all 


86  MEA    CULPA. 

my  ambitions,  all  my  despondency,  all  my  fVars.  When  I  had  been 
ill  his  touch  was  as  gentle  and  loving  as  a  wife's;  and  now,  when  I  felt- 
that  I  needed  such  a  friend  most,  when  almost  on  the  poiut  of  losing 
my  hold  on  life,  he  was  so  rudely  snatched  away  from  me!  But, 
Sam  Allen,  you  are  happier  in  that  silent  grave  than  yo'ar  surviving 
friend.  Oh,  Gbd!  What  have  I  not  been  through ! 

The  gambler  was  dead,  and  an  officer  came  in  to  arrest  me,  but  a 
shout  went  up  from  the  miners,  "Let  him  alone;  he  was  right!" 

"I  know  the  law,"  I  said  to  the  officer.  "Let  me  burymydeid 
friend,  and  then  take  me  where  you  please.  These  hands  must  dig 
the  grave — these  eyes  be  the  last  upon  earth  to  look  upon  him/' 

That  night,  as  I  sat  watching  by  my  friend,  the  expressman 
brought  a  letter  addressed  to  him.  I  opsned  it,  and  found  that  it 
was  from  his  sister.  She  wrote  that  her  husband  had  been  sick  for 
a  couple  of  years;  things  had  gone  ill  with  her,  and  now  she  was  a 
widow,  with  110  means.  Her  son  was  a  fine  lad,  who  must  now 
leave  school  and  go  to  work. 

What  could  I  do,  without  money  and  without  friends  to  help  me  ? 
And  besides,  there  were  other  claims  upon  what  little  I  could  do. 

Next  morning  early  I  was  waited  upon  by  a  committee  of  miners, 
who  said  that  they  had  had  a  talk  with  the  dead  gambler's  partner, 
who  had  admitted  that  thirty-two  hundred  dollars  of  right  belonged  to 
my  partner,  "and,"  continued  the  spokesman,  "as  you  may  need  a 
little  we  thought  we  would  bring  it  to  you.*'  Should  I  take  it?  was 
the  question  I  began  to  debate  in  my  mind,  until  I  remembered  the 
sister's  letter.  I  took  it  and  sent  it  to  her,  telling  her  her  brother 
had  died,  leaving  that  much  money,  without  telling  her  how  or  when 
he  died. 

As  luck  would  have  it,  no  one  knew  the  real  name  of  either  of  us, 
and  the  word  "Yank"  was  all  that  appeared  on  tho  pine  board  at  the 
head  of  his  grave,  and  the  law  had  to  be  satisfied  with  the  alias 
Richard  Roes  in  my  ca?e. 

Now  to  the  losk-up  !  A  year  consumed  before  my  trial  came.  Th« 
Court  asked  if  it  should  appoint  counsel.  I  said:  "The  defendant 
will  be  content  with  his  legal  right  to  appear  in  hi*  own  behalf,  with- 
out the  production  of  license."  Several  able  lawyers  volunteered, 
when  I  said  I  might  call  on  them  for  books  and  advice,  but  I  pre- 
ferred to  take  the  management  myself. 


MEA    CULPA.  87 

I  was  much  applauded  by  the  bar  and  audience  in  the  management 
of  the  case,  and  the  jury  brought  in  a  verdict  of  "not  guilty"  without 
leaving  the  box. 

Never  a  word  of  all  this  had  I  dared  to  write  to  the  little  wife, 
but  at  the  outset  had  said  that,  being  obliged  to  take  a  long  journey, 
she  need  fear  nothing  if  she  did  not  hear  from  me  for  several  months. 
After  that  I  did  not  write  until  out  of  jail. 

Then  it  was  the  same  old,  old  story  of  baffled  hopes. 

How  utterly  wretched  a  man  feels  when  he  has  to  begin  to  ac- 
knowledge to  himself  tint  he  is  a  failure.  That  not  only  is  his  life 
to  be  miserable,  but  he  is  destined  to  have  those  whom  he  loves  drag 
along  after  him.  When  he  begins  to  feel  that  his  miserable  life  is  all 
that  stands  betweeir  him  and  comparative  happiness!  When  he  be- 
gins to  think  seriously  of  whether  it  would  not  be  better  to  end  one's 
blighted  existence.  When  one  contemplates  any  undertaking  and 
finds  himself  saying:  " What's  the  use?  There  is  no  success  in  that 
for  me,"  he's  on  the  down  grade. 

It  was  thus  I  argued  with  myself.  But  I  must  go  to  work  again, 
and  went  back  to  the  old  claim.  The  miners  had  preserved  my  rights 
inviolate.  The  ground  was  worked  out  all  around,  but  that  piece 
was  left  untouched.  It  made  my  heart  ache  to  work  without  my 
old  partner,  but  I  drowned  all  recollections  as  far  as  possible  in  hard 
work.  The  claim  paid  just  ten  dollars  a  day,  and  I  determined  to 
be  content.  The  first  hundred  dollars  taken  out  was  sent  to  the  little 
wife;  so  was  the  next  and  the  next.  But  these  amounts  seemed  so 
very  small.  She  kept  writing  not  to  worry,  that  Aunt  Helen  was 
more  than  a  mother  to  her.  Aunt  Helen  was  childless  and  rich:  but 
this  did  not  satisfy  me.  What  would  Judge  Underbill  say  to  my 
failure  to  provide  for  my  family?  In  a  few  months  five  hundred  dol- 
lars had  accumulated  in  the  box  buried  in  the  dirt  floor  of  my  lonely 
cabin,  and  as  much  more  had  been  s^ent  to  my  wife.  This  was  a 
small  amount,  but  it  encouraged  me,  although  the  claim  was  fast  being 
worked  out.  Some  of  the  boys  in  the  meantime  had  made  some  fab- 
ulously rich  strikes  in  the  old  river  channel  by  drifting,  and  I  bought 
into  such  a  claim,  paying  my  last  dollar  therefor,  and  once  more  hope 
began  to  find  a  resting  place  in  my  breast,  and  the  blessed  little  wife 
got  the  first  hopeful  letter  that  had  been  written  for  many  a  day. 
For  months  and  months  we  worked  on  taking  out  next  to  nothing, 


88  MBA   CULPA. 

while  others  that  seemed  to  be  similarly  eituafed  were  getting  gold  by 
the  thousand.  I  felt  discouraged,  but  worked  on  harder  than  ever, 
as  we  were  liable  to  strike  it  rich  at,  any  minute.  Letters  to  the 
wife  grew  far  between  again,  ^o  more  remittances  could  be  made. 
She  wrote  me  that  her  sister  had  died,  and  that  her  father  had  pre- 
tended he  could  not  live  without  her,  his  only  child,  and  wanted  me 
ocorne  back  and  live  with  them.  " 

This  set  me  back  more    than  ever;  it  was   impossible  for  me  to  ac- 
cept the  offer;  and    was  I — unsuccessful,    worthless  I — to  stand   be- 
tween Inez  and   her  father?     Was  I  to   drag  her  down   further  with 
my  worthlessness  ?     It  caused  many  a  pang  to  write  the  letter  advis- 
ing her  to  accept,  her  father's  offer,  but  it  was  written. 

Mouths  passed.  The  year  1859  was  drawing  to  a  close,  and  often 
came  the  words  to  my  lips:  "What's  the  use?  'My  life  has  been  a 
failure,  and  it  is  destined  to  continue  so."  More  and  more  did  I  real- 
ize the  fact  that  I  was  "losing  my  grip."  That  is  the  way  Calif or- 
nians  express  it;  and  there  are  no  three  words,  coined  by  people  seek- 
ing force  at  the  expense  of  elegance,  that  expreses  more.  Thousands 
of  men  are  every  day  illustrating  the  lost  grip!  Our  mine  was 
worked  out.  It  seemed  that  he  had  staked  everything  upon  it — even 
our  future  hold — our  "giip"  upon  life,  and  the  game  was  against  us. 
We  quit  with  nothing. 

But  there  came  an  unexpected  turn  in  my  affairs.  A  man  by  the 
name  of  Bates,  who  had  been  on  the  jury  in  my  case,  was  accused  of 
murder.  About  the  time  utter  and  complete  despair  had  taken  pos- 
session of  me,  he  came  to  engage  me  to  take  his  case.  It  was  a  case 
of  mistaken  identity,  but  the  witnesses  were  positive.  Bates  had 
recently  made  a  big  strike  and  had  plenty  of  money.  He  told  me  if 
I  would  drop  everything  else  and  help  him  for  a  few  months  he 
would  give  me  a  large  fee.  "Go into  it  with  a  vim,"  he  said,  "and 
if  success  crowns  our  efforts  I  will  make  you  well  off/' 

The  case  was  to  come  off  at  Marysville,  and  I  was  to  go  there,  or  to 
Sacramento  or  San  Francisco,  or  wherever  nlse  I  could,  to  find  author- 
ities and  draw  on  him  for  all  expenses  It,  was  to  be  my  duty  also  to 
help  him  hunt  up  testimony.  We  traveled  together  for  weeks  hunt- 
ing up  every  circumstance  that  could  have  a  bearing  on  the  case.  I 
wrote  down  all  the  testimony  that  could  be  brought  in  on  either  side, 
and  studied  the  weakness  and  strength  of  every  point. 


MEA   CULPA. 

It  was  getting  late  in  the  fall  again  when  our  trial  finally  canoe  on 
for  a  hearing.  All  this  while  my  client  had  had  no  attorney,  but 
acting  under  my  advice,  had  attended  to  all  minor  matters  himself. 
We  had  concluded  that  it  would  be  better,  for  effects  sake  that  I 
should  not  change  my  miner's  garb,  and  I  stalked  into  the  Court-room 
wearing  a  red  shirt,  duck  pants  and  a  pair  of  miner's  brogans. 

"If  your  Honor  please,"  I  said,  "I  desire  to  be  entered  on  the  rec- 
ord as  attorney  in  the  case  of  the  People  vs.  Stephen  Bates,  set  for 
to-day,  and  I  suppose  a  license  from  the  Supreme  Court  of  Kentucky 
will  entitle  me  to  do  so." 

A  titter  went  round  the  Court-room,  and  a  smile  spread  over  the 
faces  of  the  attorneys.  Three  or  four  of  the  best  lawyers  had  been 
retained  for  the  prosecution,  and  the  Marysville  bar  at  that  time  was 
counted  the  best  in  the  State. 

The  Judge  examined  the  paper  passed  to  him,  and  said  to  the  clerk: 
"Enter  John  Heuderson  as  attorney  in  this  case.  Have  you  assistant 
counsel,  Mr.  Henderson?" 

"None  !" 

The  name  "John  Henderson,"  pronounced  by  the  Judge,  sounded 
strangely  to  me;  almost  frightened  me.  I  had  not  heard  it  a  dozen, 
times  in  almost  seven  years,  and  it  was  hard  to  realize  that  I  was 
the  person  named.  I  had  no  books  with  me  in  Court,  for  I  had  for 
months  delved  into  everything  I  could  find  that  could  bear  on  the 
case,  and  I  had  it  in  my  head.  I  could  repeat  whole  pages  of  law 
on  questions  of  evidence  arising  in  the  case,  for  I  had  so  studied  all 
that  could  bear  upon  it,  as  to  be  prepared  for  any  and  all  emergency. 

In  my  opening  address  to  the  jury,  I  called  attention  to  the  fact 
that  I  was  a  miner  who  had  paid  no  attention  to  law  for  years,  and 
showed  them  as  hard  and  horny  a  pair  of  hands  as  handled  a  pick. 
We  did  not  expect  to  bring  a  law  book  into  Court,  but  relying  on 
the  justice  of  our  case,  we  were  willing  to  put  inexperience  against 
experience;  a  rusty  memory  of  the  law  against  the  library  the  gen- 
tleman had  brought  into  the  Court.  I  tried  to  make  no  points  that 
could  not  be  maintained.  The  attorneys  themselves  were  astonished 
at  my  familiarity  with  the  law  on  every  point  raised,  and  before  the 
trial  was  half  over  I  could  hear  such  expressions  as  "Wonder  where 
the  deuce  they  dug  that  chap  up?"  "He  is  a  nail-driver,"  etc.  I 
took  no  notes,  for  I  knew  as  much  about  the  case  before  as  after  the 


90  MEA    Ct'LPA. 

evidence  was  iu.  When  I  was  to  make  nay  argument  every  avail- 
able space  in  the  room  was  occupied.  The  speech  was  a  magnificent 
success.  I  surprised  myself,  surprised  my  client,  surprised  every- 
body. It  was  with  difficulty  the  officers  could  keep  the  applause  from 
bursting  forth  from  the  crowd.  The  verdict  was  in  our  favor,  and 
before  I  left  the  Court-room  a  lawyer  who  had  the  largest  practice 
of  anyone  in  northern  California,  offered  me  a  copartnership.  I  could 
step  right  into  a  lucrative  practice. 

What  a  fool  I  had  been  not  to  have  gone  into  the  practice  of  law  soon- 
er. But  I  came  to  California,  like  many  another  fool,  expecting  to 
get  rich  in  a  few  months  and  go  back  to  the  "States."  The  ordinary 
way  of  making  money  was  too  slow. 

But  once  more  I  was  buoyant  with  hope  as  the  day  I  first  got  my 
license  to  practice.  I  returned  to  the  hotel  to  write  Inez  a  long  letter, 
and  then  I  began  to  think  it  had  1-een  three  months  since  one  had 
been  received  from  her.  But  1  wrote  her  one  full  of  hope  for  the 
future,  telling  her  that  she  must  make  up  her  mind  to  come  out  here; 
that  my  fee  in  this  case  was  ten  thousand  dollars,  a  portion  of  which 
I  would  send  her  in  a  few  days  to  come  out  on.  ,  In  fact,  as  soon  as 
I  got  my  new  partnership  fixed  up  I  might  go  back  for  her.  I  went 
to  bed  and  dreamed  of  a  brilliant  future. 

Next  morning  three  letters  were  laid  on  my  table.  One  was  from 
my  client,  containing  a  check  for  $1,000,  and  saying  that  he  had  been 
called  suddenly  away,  but  would  remit  the  balance  in  a  week.  The 
next  was  from  Tom  Allen's  sister,  saying  that  she  had  moved  to  Cal- 
ifornia and  was  living  in  Lake  City,  Nevada  county,  and  from  the 
report  of  the  trial  had  learned  for  the  first  time  where  her  brother's 
old  friend  could  be  found ;  the  words  of  the  third  burned  into  my 
very  soul — dried  up,  as  it  were,  the  marrow  in  my  bones.  In  the 
agony  of  my  despair  I  cursed  God,  that  I  might  die.  These  words 
burn  in  my  memory  like  the  branding  iron  in  the  flesh.  I  can  see 
them  standing  out  in  bold  relief  now  in  that  delicate  hand.  I  have 
not  dared  to  think  of  them  for  years,  I  wonder  if  I  have  courage  to 
write  them  over  again.  Let  me  see. 

LEBANON,  Ky.,  September  2,  '60. 

S;r:  I  am  pained  beyond  expression  to  find  that  all  these  years  I 
have  been  cruelly  deceived  in  you.  I  had  no  idea  of  the  depth  of  de- 


ME A   CDLPA.  91 

gradation  into  which  you  were  cipable  of  falling.  Your  way  through 
life  lies  in  one  direction;  mine  in  another.  Henceforth  you  must  not 
cross  my  pathway.  I  hope  this  is  plain  enough  for  you  to  compre- 
hend. 

INEZ  HENDERSON. 

I  scrutinized  the  writing — there  could  be  no  mistaking  it;  I  could 
swear  that  it  was  hers.  The  address  on  the  envelope  was  certainly 
genuine.  Then  it  stated  a  simple  fact — JL  had  gone  down,  down,  until 
I  almost  hated  myself.  Well,  of  one  thing  I  was  certain — she  would 
never  hear  from  me  again .  I  was  astonished  at  my  own  calmness. 
After  the  first  few  minutes  it  was  the  calmness  of  despair.  I  could 
only  say  "God  bless  her  she  is  right." 

Then  came  the  old  saying,  "  What's  the  use?  Why  hope  against 
hope?" 

Listlessly  and  aimlessly  I  took  the  stage  for  Nevada  City,  and  from 
there  to  my  old  claim  on  the  South  Fork.  From  there  I  started  out 
on  foot  for  Lake  City,  to  see  the  sister  of  my  old  friend,  intending 
also  to  visit  Tom  Allen's  grave.  I  had  most  of  the  thousand  dollars 
with  me  that  my  client  had  sent,  and  while  at  the  bridge  took  out  my 
purse  to  pay  a  trifling  bill.  I  had  not  gone  far  when  I  was  struck  on 
the  head,  from  behind,  by  some  one  I  did  not  see,  and  fell  senseless 
to  the  ground.  When  I  came  to  I  found  I  had  been  shot  immediately 
over  the  heart,  but  that  it  was  a  mere  scratch;  the  ball  had  glanced 
round.  Two  horses,  which  I  recognized  as  those  of  two  of  my  best 
best  friends,  were  standing  hitched  near  the  road  side.  I  had  left 
these  men  at  the  bridge,  and  they  were  going  my  way.  From  this  I 
concluded  that  they  had  found  me,  thought  me  dead,  and  were  gone 
for  assistance.  My  money  was  all  gone,  so  that  robbery  was  the 
cause  of  the  attack.  As  the  world  was  then  no  more  to  me,  I  con- 
cluded to  go  and  throw  myself  into  the  river;  but  as  I  went  down 
towards  the  river  I  found  a  recently  slain  deer.  While  death  never 
had  any  special  terror  for  me,  and  I  would  on  more  than  one  occasion 
have  welcomed  it,  still  I  had  a  dread  of  self-murder. 

An  idea  seized  me ;  I  would  drag  this  deer  down  to  the  cliff  and 
throw  it  over.  My  friends  would  find  my  traces,  find  where  a  bloody 
carcass  had  been  dragged  along  and  thrown  into  the  river.  As  my 
name  was  well  known  there,  Inez  would  learn  positively  that  I  was 
dead,  and  I  would  leave  the  country,  and  she  would  never,  never 


OF  TEH 


92  MEA  fcULPA. 

know  any  better.  If  the  robbers  were  captured  and  hanged  for  mur- 
der it  would  serve  them  right. 

When  the  deer  fell  over  the  bank  I  fled  from  the  spot,  and  kept 
going.  I  went  down  into  Mexico  and  stayed  until  the  war  broke  out, 
and  then  joined  the  Southern  army,  and  courted  death  through  all  that 
terrible  struggle.  Never  one  word  have  I  heard  of  Inez.  God  bless 
her,  I  hope  she  is  happy.  I  am  afraid  to  hear  from  her;  afraid  to 
think  of  her,  because,  oh,  my  God,  how  I  love  her.  Hers  was  a  just 
sentence  passed  upon  me.  If  my  worthless  life  would  give  her  one 
moment  of  pleasure  how  gladly  would  I  surrender  it,  by  any  means 
except  self-murder. 

But  now  I  am  a  listless  wanderer  on  the  face  of  the  earth.  Every- 
where I  strike  a  lot  of  tramps — those  that  labor  and  those  that  loaf. 
They  give  me  the  best  they  have,  and  I  have  never  suffered  for  a 
meal  and  have  never  begged  one,  I  always  give  them  that  old  name 
"Kentuck,"  because  that  was  Yank's  christening.  Out  of  respect 
they  sometimes  call  me  Captain,  sometimes  Major,  and  occasionally  I 
get  to  be  Colonel. 

I  said  I  was  listlessly  wandering  over  the  face  of  the  earth.  That 
was  true  a  short  time  ago,  but  not  now.  I  have  a  purpose  now.  1 
learned  accidentally,  that  Allen  Campbell  had  been  arrested  for  my 
murder:  that  be  had  escaped  from  the  jail  and  had  never  since  been 
heard  of.  This  is  the  son  of  Tom  Allen's  sister,  There  is  some 
fearful  mistake  somewhere,  and  I  will  travel  this  earth  all  over  to  find 
him  if  he  is  alive,  and  clear  the  stain  off  the  nephew  of  the  truest  man 
God  ever  made.  I  begin  to  feel  some  energy  in  me  as  I  think  of  the 
work  before  me .  But  even  if  I  should  find  him  how  could  he  be  com- 
pletely vindicated  and  I  remain  dead  f 

CHAPTER  III. 

The  sun  rose  bright  and  clear  on  the  morning  of  December  25, 
1870,  and  as  he  sends  his  rays  through  an  elegant  farm  mansion  near 
the  town  of ,  in  the  Sacramento  valley,  a  man  in  one  of  the  up- 
per rooms  thereof  walks  across  the  floor  of  the  room  absorbed  in 
some  mental  struggle.  After  a  time  he  goes  to  the  window  and  looks 
upon  the  outer  world.  His  eyes  rest  first  upon  an  orchard  and  a 
vineyard,  a  short  distance  from  the  houee,  now  entirely  divested  of 
both  fruit  and  foliage.  A  little  beyond  he  sees  a  field  of  wheat, 


ME A    CULPA. 


which,  a  few  weeks  after  the  heavy  rain,  has  covered  the  ground  with 
a  rich  carpeting  of  green.  Then  he  lets  his  eyes  fall  upon  the  scene 
immediately  beneath  his  window,  and  gazes  upon  grounds  covered 
with  blue  grass  and  ornamented  with  trees,  shrubs  and  flowers .  Near- 
er still  he  observes  a  conservatory  in  which  can  be  seen  tropical  and 
semi-tropical  flowers  and  plants  in  great  profusion.  He  stands  there 
leaning  against  the  window-facing,  enjoying  the  scenery  before  him; 
yet  his  mind  is  not  at  ease.  As  he  stands  there,  lost  in  contempla- 
tion, with  his  mind  sometimes  upon  things  away  back  in  the  misty 
past,  a  servant  enters  the  room,  spreads  a  cloth  upon  the  table  and 
bringa  in  an  elegant  breakfast.  This  being  done,  the  servant  touches 
him  on  the  elbow  and  calls  attention  to  the  fact  that  his  meal  is  ready. 
Mechanically  he  partakes,  and  when  it  is  cleared  away,  and  he  is 
once  more  alone,  he  resumes  his  walk  around  the  room.  Finally  he 
exclaims:  "This  is  too  much  !  Too  much  !"  Then  throws  himself 
into  a  seat  at  a  table  before  a  grate,  in  which  burns  a  cheerful  fire, 
rests  his  elbows  upon  the  table,  and  covers  his  face  with  his  hands, 
and  his  thoughts  become  audible: 

"I  am  more  and  more  mystified  by  my  surroundings  here.  Some- 
times it  seems  that  I  am  only  dreaming,  and  that  I  will  yet  wake  up 
at  the  old  camp  in  the  brush;  and,  at.  other  times,  I  question  if  what 
purports  to  have  been  a  long  period  of  my  existence  is  not,  has  not  in 
reality,  been  all  a  dream,  and  I  may  wake  up  a  young  man  by  the 
side  of  the  truest  wife  a  man  ever  had.  Who  ami?  Do  I  really 
exist  ?  Let  me  see.  How  does  the  mystery  stand  at  present  V  I 
wormed  out  of  Miles  (that  is,  if  there  is  a  Miles  and  I  am  myself), 
the  other  day,  that  I  was  shot,  that  he  squealed  murder,  and  that 
just  then  the  "widda,"  as  he  calls  her,  came  along  in  a  carriage,  took 
me  in  and  brought  me  here,  where  I  have  been  ever  since.  I  was 
delirious,  he  tells  me,  for  a  we«k  or  so,  during  which  time  this  widow 
waited  on  me  with  her  own  hands,  but  I  have  not  gotten  a  glimpse  of 
her  yet.  It  seems  to  me  that  when  I  first  came  to  myself,  that  I 
frightened  a  young  girl  almost  out  of  her  senses  by  throwing  my 
arms  around  her  and  calling  her  my  own  sweet  wife.  She  vanished 
into  thin  air,  and  I  have  not  set  my  eyes  on  her  since .  Miles  and 
one  of  the  best  old  Udies  I  ever  knew  have  been  my  nurses.  Mile 
says  the  nurae  is  not  the  widow,  but  that  she  is  young  and  hai»dsome. 
but  Miles  has  been  so  mysterious  lately  that  I  can  get  nothing  out  Of 


94  MEA    CULPA. 

him.  When  I  ask  him  why  I  am  not  allowed  to  leave  this  room,  he 
gays  the  doctor  ordered  it;  but  I  am  now  as  strong  as  I  ever  was.  I 
have  just  drifted  along  on  the  current  of  events.  O,  this  mystery, 
this  mystery  !  No  king  could  fare  better,  he  could  not  have  more 
attention  paid  to  all  his  wants  than  has  been  paid  to  this  poor  mis- 
erable hulk  of  a  man.  Paintinga  that  I  admired  most  in  my  youth 
have  been  brought  in  and  hung  up  in  my  room;  fresh  bouquets  of 
costly  flowers  have  been  daily  brought  to  me.  I  have 
only  to  wish  for  anything  and  it  is  here.  The  clothes 
brought  me  to  wear  were  evidently  cut  to  my  measure,  and 
1  have  been  barbered  and  fixed  up  until  when  I  look  into  the  glass , 
extending  from  ceiling  to  floor,  I  can  find  no  trace  of  the  tramp.  Wel!T 
I  have  been  told  that  this  day  13  Christmas,  and  1  could  to-day  go 
whither  I  pleased.  But  where  can  I  go?  What  is  in  store  for  me? 
Miles,  the  sly  rascal  hinted  to  me  last  evening  that  my  hostess  was 
much  smitten  with  me,  and  that  I  could  marry  her  and  become  pos- 
sessor of  ali  her  wealth.  But,  oh  God!  I  hope  this  is  not  true!  I  must 
be  true  to  my  Inez .  She  may  have  married  again  and  have  forgotten 
me.  I  have  never  dared  inquire  about  that;  but  I  would  not  for  a 
million  dollars  put  another  in  her  place  in  my  heart.  But  what  if  my 
hostess  should  be  Inez  married  and  widowed?  What  if  she  should  love 
me  still?  But  no,  no;  I  must  not  think  of  such  a  thing.  I  have 
wronged  her  too  deeply  for  that.  God  would  not  be  a  just  God  if  he 
sent  such  happiness  to  so  great  a  sinner — to  one  the  burden  of  whose 
song  must  be:  'Mea  Gulpa,  Mea  Culpa,  Mea  Maxima  Culpa!'  Oh, 
Inez!  Inez!  Could  you  ever  forgive  me?" 

When  he  first  seated  himself  at  the  table,  a  lady  had  stolen  softly 
into  the  room  and  stood  near  him  unseen,  and  as  he  uttered  the  last 
exclamation  she  put  her  arms  gently  around  his  neck,  kissed  him  on 
the'forehead  and  said;  "Yes,  dear  husband,  I  can." 

The  man  sprang  to  his  feet  and  stood  for  a  moment  or  two  and 
glared  at  her  like  a  maniac.  Then  he  seized  her  in  his  arms,  as 
though  she  had  been  a  baby,  and  walked  across  the  floor,  covering  her 
face  with  kisses.  "Oh,  my  God!"  he  exclaimed.  "How  can  it  be 
possible  that  I  once  more  hold  my  darling  in  my  arms!  It  would  be 
too  cruel  to  have  this  turn  out  to  be  one  of  the  mad  dreams  of  a 
broken-down  tra,mp!"  Seating  himself  in  a  chair  by  the  window,  still 
holding  her  in  his  arms,  each  hand,  each  finger,  received  its  separate 


MEA    CULPA.  95 

kiss  and  caress.     When  he  became  more   calm    he   looked    lovingly 
down  into  her  eyes,  and  saw  the  love  of  old  reflected  back. 

''John,"  she  said  playfully,  and  if  to  reassure  him,  "John,  you 
are  still  my  great  big;  awkward  booby  !  Here  I  have  been  for  more 
than  an  hour  curling  my  hair  and  dressing  my  self  so  as  to  look  my 
very  best,  aad  in  two  minutes  I  look  like  a  fright.  One  would  not 
suppose  it  had  been  combed  for  a  month  !  Look  at  it  !" 

"Oh,  In^z,  do  tell  me  —do  make  me  know  that  I  am  really  with 
you,  and  that  I  am  not  in  the  midst  of  one  of  those  dreams  of  happi- 
ness that  will  follow  the  poor,  broken-down  creatures  who  have  lost 
all  hope  of  the  future  !  Oh,  I  have  had  so  many,  so  many  just,  such 
dreams  in  which  the  maximum  of  all  earthly  happiness  would  be 
reached,  only  to  bs  followed  by  the  realization  of  bitter  degradation 
and  shame  !" 

"Let  us  hope,  dear  John,  that  it  will  be  a  long,  long  dream  this 
time,  extending  from  this  anniversary  of  our  Saviour's  birth  to  the 
moment  when  one  or  both  of  us  shall  stand  at  his  feet  to  receive  the 
sentence  of  eternity.  But,  John,"  she  continued,  while  a  mischievous 
smile  played* around  her  lips,  "I  have  forgiven  you  for  letting  ill 
fortune  befall  you.  Now,  dear,  can  you  forgive  me  ?  Forgive  me  for 
that  letter,  and  for  that — that — other  marriage,  yon  know  John  !" 

'There  is  nothing  in  the  wide  world,  darling  to  forgive.  My  idol 
can  do  no  wrong.  When  I  received  the  letter  to  which  you  refer  — 
your  last — I  could  but  acknowledge  its  overwhelming  justice,  and  I 
had  to  bow  down  in  humiliation  and  exclaim,  'Meet  Culpaf  But, 
Inez,  it  cannot  b?  that  you  belong  to  some  one  else;  that  would  be  too 
cruel.  But  what  els?  can  expect?  All  my  pleasures  have  been  like 
the  apples  of  Sodom — touch  them,  and  they  are  gone.  No,  No  !  it 
cannot  ba.  Miles  said  you  were  a  widow,  and  besides  you  said  we 
would  be  always  together.  Thank  God  for  that  !" 

"But  Miles  was  mistaken.  I  am  not  a  widow,  but  am,  a  I  have 
been  for  eighteen  years,  the  true  and  lawful  wife  of — well  kiss  me 
and  I  will  tell  you  his  name.  There!  there!  that  will  do,  I  said  one 
kiss,  not  forty,  John  Henderson  !  And  now,  dear  husband,  not  to 
keep  you  in  suspense  any  longer,  permit  me  to  say  that  I  have  read 
that  sketch  you  wrote  just  before  you  were  shot,  and  until  I  read  that 
I  did  not  know  that  you  had  received  such  a  letter  as  the  one  which 
caused  you  to  become  dead  to  the  world!" 


96  MEA    CTJLPA. 

"Then  it  was  all  a  forgery  !  Oh,  the  fool  that  I  wa*  !" 
'•I  cannot  say  that  it  was  exactly  a  forgery,  for  I  have  not  been 
without  my  crosses  and  trials,  John.  That  letter  business  came  about 
in  this  way :  After  I  went  back  to  my  father's  to  live,  I  became  ac- 
quainted with  a  man  whom  I  learned  to  regard  very  highly.  I  was 
open  and  frank  in  my  friendship;  and  presuming  that  it  was  love,  he 
wrote  me  a  letter,  proposing  that  I  get  ..  divorce  and  marry  him. 
Smarting  under  the  insult,  I  wrote  him  the  note  you  received.  As  my 
letters  failed  to  reach  you,  I  suppose  he  must  have  had  some  clerk  in 
the  postoffice  in  his  employ,  and  captured  them.  It  would  then  have 
been  an  easy  matter  to  change  the  envelopes." 
"Who  was  this  man — this  villain  ?" 

"To  prevent  trouble  in  the  future,  I  prefer  to  keep  that  to  myself." 
"But  Inez,  tell  me  how  you  ever  happened  to  come  to  California  ?' ' 
"A  strong  impulse,  with  a  faint  glimmer  of  hope,  moved  me  in 
this  direction.  I  did  not  dare  to  hope  to  find  you,  yet  I  did  not  feel 
that  you  were  dead .  Aunt  Helen  passed  away  some  time  ago,  leav- 
ing me  her  sole  heiress;  and  when  some  five  years  ago  my  father  died 
I  found  myself  in  possession  of  a  large  fortune,  and  entire  mistress  of 
my  own  actions.  I  immediately  set  out  for  this  State,  and  purchased 
this  farm,  which  I  have  since  improved.  The  impression  or  presenti- 
ment, or  whatever  name  the  feeling  may  be  called,  that  you  were 
still  living  and  keeping  out  of  the  way  for  some  unknown  causes  grew 
stronger  and  stronger,  until  about  two  years  ago  I  organized  an  effort 
to  find  you.  I  had  paid  emissaries  in  every  walk  of  life.  James 
Burns,  or  the  man  you  have  nicknamed  Lieutenant  Miles  O'Riely, 
who  had  been  in  my  employ  ever  since  I  came  to  the  State,  undertook 
the  task  of  searching  among  those  men,  of  whom  there  are  so  many 
in  this  State,  who  have  given  up  life's  battles  and  settle  down  in  the 
belief  that  there  is  nothing  more  in  store  for  them.  Although  ho 
firmly  believed  that  the  proof  of  your  death  was  beyond  a  cavil,  he 
went  to  work  as  earnestly  as  though  he  shared  my  impressions,  fle 
had  been  most  of  the  time  for  two  years  on  the  tramp.  He  had 
pictures  and  descriptions  of  you  as  minutely  as  I  could  give 
them  with  your  complete  history.  When  he  found  you 
at  Los  Angeles  last  summer  he  felt  encouraged,  and  the  longer  he 
stayed  with  you  the  more  he  felt  that  he  was  right;  but  he  could  not 
draw  you  out  enough  to  make  him  certain  enough  to  inform  me  of  the 


MEA   CULPA.  97 

progress  he  was  making  until  the  day  you  were  brought  here,  shot. 
Under  one  pretext  and  another  he  kept  bringing  you  nearer  and  nearer 
to  me.  He  wanted  me  to  see  you.  If  you  remember,  you  saw  him 
here  when  you  passed  by  on  that  day.  Up  to  that  time  he  had  not 
told  me  of  his  suspicion;  but  as  you  looked  toward  the  house,  and 
hesitated  a  moment  as  you  saw  him,  somehow  my  heart  told  me  who 
it  was,  and  I  took  an  eager  look  after  you. 

"'I  am  right/  he  said;  'that  must  be  John  Henderson.'  My  heart 
fltood  still,  the  room  whirled  around  and  I  staggered  and  fell.  It  was 
the  only  time  in  my  life  that  I  had  ever  fainted;  but  never  mind  that. 
James,  or  Miles  as  you  would  call  him,  said  he  would  find  some  pre- 
text for  bringing  you  around  the  next  day.  When  you  were  shot,  he 
aent  one  man  to  town  for  a  doctor,  and  hailed  a  passing  wagon  and 
brought  you  here.  With  all  this  ingenuity  he  eaid  that  he  had  never 
gotten  anything  out  of  you  except  that  you  had  once  practiced  law, 
and  that  there  was  a  woman  somewhere,  dead  or  alive,  whose  msuxory 
you  worshiped.  It  was  his  talks  to  you  that  put  you  to  writing  that 
sketch  I  read.  Oh,  the  ec3tacy  of  knowing  that  through  all  your  trials 
and  misfortunes  I  have  reigned  queen  of  your  heart  I" 

Henderson  again  covered  his  wife's  face  with  kisses,  and  she 
nestled  her  head  against  his  heart. 

"Why  hive  y  >u  not  told  me  all  this  before  ?"  he  said. 

"Becuise,  Joha,  in  the  first  place,  I  wanted  yoa  to  get  perfectly 
stroag  before  subjecting  your  feelings  to  the  strain  of  such  a  discov- 
ery; and  in  the  second  place,  Christmas,  the  anniversary  of  our  dear 
Lord,  was  so  nsar  that  I  thought  it  fitting  to  give  you  a  happy 
Christmas.  There  are  others  in  the  house  besides  ourselves  who  will 
acknowledge  this  day  as  the  merriest  and  happiest  Christmas  of  their 
lives  u 

"Others,  Inez?  What  others?  Oh,  yes,  we  have  a  child.  O, 
wife,  tell  me  if  that  child  is  still  alive.'* 

"1  will  show  you  in  a  minute."  And  Mrs.  Henderson  went  to  the 
dx>r  of  another  room  and  said:  "Jennie,  you  can  come  in  now. 
This,"  she  continued,  as  the  young  lady  appeared,  "is  our  daughter." 
She  had  hirdly  finished  the  sentence  before  he  had  gathered  her  m 
his  arms.  -~*^.  4 

"Aid  this  is  another  accusing  angel, "'  he  exclaimed,  "cjme  to  bear 
wrtnee*  to  ray  want  of  uunhood;  oae  whose  young*  life  has  been 


98  MEA    OULPA. 

robbed  of  its  happy  childhood,  and  whose  young  heart  has  been  op- 
pressed wiih  sadness — and  all  through  ay  fault;  my  mo*t  grievcue 
iault." 

"Why  not  allow  me,  dear  papa,  to  be  a  messenger  of  light,  if  I  am 
to  be  clothed  with  celestial  attributes  ?" 

"Ah,  heve  is  my  little  Inez  over  again.  Whatever  I  once  made  of 
myself  was  owing  to  the  inspiration  received  from  a  little  girl  who 
looked  just  like  you,  and  the  great  mistake  of  my  life  was  in  getting 
too  far  away  frcm  her  influence.  "But,"  he  continued,  putting  one 
arm  around  his  wife's  and  another  around  his  daughter's  waist,  "I  am 
yet  comparatively  a  young  man  and  with  God's  help  I  will  wipe  out 
all  the  past  and  will  devote  every  moment  of  my  life  to  making  up  to 
my  wife  and  child  the  years  of  happiness  of  which  I  have  robbed 
them/' 

After  a  little  more  conversation  between  the  three,  the  wife  re- 
marked that  some  company  awaited  them  in  the  parlor,  "and  remem- 
ber," she  added,"  "this  is  your  house  and  you  are  the  host  to-day  and 
must  act  accordingly." 

"My  house,  Inez!  Impossible!  It  cannot  be!  I  am  a  beggar,  a 
tramp,  a  vagabond  on  the  face  of  the  earth !  Do  not,  oh,  do  not,  say 
that  anything  is  mine  until  I  shall  have  an  opportunity  ci  earning 
it," 

She  putfber  hand  acrcss  his  mouth  to  stop  further  utterance,  and 
said:  "This  is  our  merry  Christmas;  we  must  have  no  more  such  talk 
as  that.  There  are  further  explanations  to  be  made  to-day  that 
will  satisfy  you  on  every  point." 

A B  Henderson  walked  into  the  parlor  with  hie  wife  and  daughter 
on  either  arm,  a  middle-aged  gentleman  arose  to  meet  them.  "I  be- 
lieve, Mr.  Henderson,"  she  paid,  "that  you  have  met  Mr.  Stephen 
Bates  ?" 

"My  old  client,  my  dear  friend;  the  man  who  once  raised  me  from 
the  depths  of  despair  to  think  something  of  myself.  Who  would 
have  made  something  of  me,  even  after  I  bad  lost  my  grip,  had  not 
other  unfortunate  circumstances  intervened.  From  the  bottom  t-f  my 
heart,  I  can  wish  you  a  merry  Christmas  !" 

"You  do  not  know  yet  how  good  a  friend  he  has  been  to  you,' 
said  his  wife.  "But  here  is  another  gentleman  waiting  for  an  intro- 


MBA   CITLPA.  99 

Auction.     Mr.  Henderson,  let  me  introduce  you  to  Mr.  Thomas  Allen 
Campbell." 

"My  God  !"  exclaimed  Henderson;  "can  this  be  true?  Have  I, 
indeed ,  the  good  fortune  of  meeting  under  such  auspicious  circum- 
stances the  nephew,  the  almost  son,  of  the  dearest  and  best  friend  I 
ever  had?"  He  threw  his  arms  around  his  neck  and  wept  like  a 
child. 

"Can  you  forgive  me,  Mr.  Henderson,  for  that  shot  I  gave  you, 
while  in  the  character  of  Jim  Fiske  ?" 

"Forgive  !  "Don't  anybody  ask  me  to  forgive  anything  !  All  the 
hardships,  all  the  mistakes,  all  this  unhappiness  has  been  brought 
about  through  my  fault.  It  is  ever  with  me  the  same  refrain — Mea 
Culpa  I  But  let  us  drive  dull  care  away,  and  make  the  merriest 
Christmas  California  ever  saw  !" 

"But  here  is  yet  another,"  said  the  wife.  "Let  me  introduce  Mr. 
James  Burns,  for  several  years  the  business  agent  on  this  farm." 

"Oh,  Miles  !  You  rascal  !  How  will  T  ever  get  even  with  you  for 
toting  me  several  hundred  miles,  to  get  me  into  such  a  scrape  as 
this  !M 

'*!  am  thinking  that  if  you  had  known  as  much  about  the  place  I 
was  a-bringing  you  to  as  you  do  now,  I  should  not  have  had  such 
hard  work  of  it.  You  were  the  hardest  person  to  get  anything  out  of 
I  ever  tried.  When  I  told  you  the  story  of  John  Henderson's  mur- 
der, and  Allen  Campbell's  hard  times,  I  watched  you  closely  all  the 
time  and  got  but  slight  reward  for  it;  but  that  one  swallowing  down 
of  a  lump  in  your  throat  gave  me  encouragement.  I  was  going  to  follow 
up  the  Fiske  story  with  one  that  would  have  pressed  you  for  an  in- 
troduction next  day,  had  it  not  been  for  that  little  episode  which  fol- 
owed." 

"Did  you  know  that  Jim  Fiske  and  Allen  Campbell  were  on*  and 
the  same  person  ?' ' 

"Not  until  aftef  the  story  was  told  and  the  shot  was  tired.  Then  I 
knew  that  the  two  men  I  wanted  to  bring  together  had  met,  and  that 
I  had  not  been  quick  enough  to  avoid  a  disastrous  consequence." 

"I  see,  Miles,  that  you  have  left  your  brogue  out  in  the  camp  with 
the  other  accouterments  of  the  tramp.  Bat  there  is  one  other  person 
to  whom  I  want  to  be  introduced.  Where  is  the  old  lady  who  nursed 
me  so  kindly  ?" 


100  MEA   OULPA. 

"1  am  afraid  you  would  waut  to  kiss  her/5  said  the  wife,  "and  I 
would  be  jealous.  But  if  you  will  wait  until  lean  go  and  pad  up, 
and  get  on  a  wig  and  some  paint,  I  will  try  and  represent  her/' 

"Well,  I'll  kiesher  any  way,"  said  be,  suiting  the  action  to  the 
word. 

''Well,  now/'  said  Jennie,  "don't  you  want  to  be  introduced  to[the 
little  girl  who  was  sitting  by  your  side  when  you  came  to  yourself 
one  day,  and  who  you  wanted  to  claim  as  your  little  Inez?" 

After  a  while  the  conversation  turned  upon  Thomas  Allen,  when 
Allen  Campbell  said:  "Don't  you  know,  Mr.*  Hendeson,  that  the 
fact  of  a  monument  having  been  erected  over  my  uncle's  grave  after 
your  reputed  death  puzzled  me  no  little.  I  could  not  imagine  you 
living  yet,  as  with  my  own  eyes  I  had  eeen  you  dead;  but  I  could 
not  imagine  who  did  it/' 

"Yes,  I  hewed  that  granite  out  with  my  own  hands,  but  did  not 
put  it  up  for  fear  of  discovery ;  I  had  energy  enough  to  hire  that 
done." 

"And  I,"  said  Mr.  Bates,  "thought  that  monument  an  evidence 
that  Allen  Campbell  was  still  around,  and  caused  me  to  redouble  my 
my  efforts  toward  capturing  him.  All  of  which,  I  now  believe,  has 
led  to  gcod  results." 

"It  may  be  more  satisfactory,  both  to  my  husband  and  Mr.  Camp- 
bell/' said  Mrs.  Henderson,  "if  I  should  enter  in  to  a  little  explanation 
just  here.  Soon  after  the  supposed  murder  of  my  husband,  Mr. 
Bates  sent  me  the  rest  of  the  fee  he  had  agreed  to  pay,  and  hence 
Mr.  Henderson  can  see  that  he  has  quite  an  interest  in  the  property 
hereabouts.  In  addition  to  this,  he  proposed  we  should  jointly  offer  a 
reward  of  tive  thousand  dollars  for  the  capture  of  Allen  Campbell, 
the  supposed  murderer.  This  reward  was  offered  by  the  Sheriff,  Mr. 
Bates  not  being  known  in  it,  which  gave  him  a  better  chance  of  work-1 
ing  to  the  same  end  himself.  Some  five  years  ago,  one  Thomap  C. 
Allen  discovered  and  located  a  rich  quartz  claim.  A  company  was 
formed  and  the  mine  was  opened.  Mr.  Bates  was  interested  in  mining 
property,  and  became  a  large  owner  in  this  mine.  Although  the 
heavy  beard  of  the  man  had  taken  the  place  of  the  smooth  face  of  the 
stripling,  Mr.  Bates  began  to  think  that  Thomas  C.  Allen  and  Thomas 
Allfn  Campbell  were  one  and  the  same  person.  He  communicated 
this  to  another  gentleman  interested  in  the  mine,  but  it  happened  that 


HTEA    CtTLPA.  101 

this  gentleman  was  a  friend  o£  Mr.  Allen'?,  and  intimated  to  him  that 
he  was  suspected,  and  that  detectives  would  probably  be  on  his  track* 
Allen  left  the  mine,  and  Bates  concluded  that  he  left  because  suspect- 
ed, and  set  a  guard  on  all  the  avenues  of  escape  from  the  State. 
Allen,  in  the  guise  of  a  tramp,  fell  in  with  my  husband,  and  what 
followed  they  both  knew.  After  that  sad  event  I  sent  for  Mr.  Bates 
and  explained  to  him  the  identity  of  each.  We  knew  that  Allen 
Campbell  would  not  be  taken  alive,  and  we  wanted  to  avoid  a  collis- 
ion with  the  officers.  He  went  to  see  Allen's  friend,  whom  he  was 
satisfied  could  find  him.  That  friend  came  to  see  me,  and  to  satisfy 
him  that  there  was  no  trick  about,  I  had  to  show  him  my  husband, 
show  him  the  manuscript  he  had  written,  and  bring  Burns  in  to  tell 
all  that  he  had  done,  before  I  could  get  this  cautious  friend  to  agree 
to  anything,  and  then  he  only  said  may  be  so.  In  a  couple  of  days 
Allen  called  on  me,  and  satisfied  himself  about  the  truth  of  the  mat- 
ter, and  has  since  walked  in  the  light  of  day,  feeling  lighter  and  hap- 
pier than  he  has  felt  for  years.  It  is  through  the  activity  of  Mr. 
Bates  that  we  are  all  here  together  on  this  happy,  happy  Christmas 
Day  !" 

"He  caine  near  being  too  active  for  me,"  said  Allen,  "but  I  honor 
and  respect  him  for  his  straightforwardness  to  the  memory  of  a  Friend 
whom  he  supposed  dead." 

"And  now,"  said  Mr.  Bates,  "I  have  the  strangest  part  of  this 
Rtorytotell:  A  few  days  ago  one  Chas.  Guthrie  died,  and  on  his 
death-bed  confessed  that  he  had  instigated  the  murder  of  John  Har- 
rison, for  which  I  came  so  near  suffering  through  a  mistaken  identity. 
He  said  that  his  man  bad  mistaken  Harrison  for  John  Henderson, 
both  being  known  by  the  said  name  of  'Kentuckg'  The  object  he 
said  of  getting  Henderson  out  of  the  way  was  that  he  might  get  his 
wife.  He  then,  he  said,  proposed  a  divorce  to  her,  which  she  stout- 
ly refused,  and  after  stealing  letters  from  his  wife  to  Henderson  and 
vice  versa,  he  concluded  to  have  the  killing  job  perfected,  and  the  at- 
tack for  which  Allen  Campbell  was  arrested  was  the  result  ?" 

"Mea  Culpa!"  exclaimed  Mw.  Henderson,    'it  is  through  my  fault 

this  time.     This  man  came  to  my  father's  house,  and  I  treated  him  as 

a  prince,  the  same  as    I  have  James   Burcs  and  Mrs.   Bates:  but  the 

poor  man  lost  his  mind.     Let  ue    hopa  and  pray  that  God  will   not 

hold  him  responsible  for  his  acts." 


102  ME  A   OULPA.. 

The  recital  of  this  last  episode  threw  a  gloom  for  a  few  moments 
over  the  assemblage,  but  they  all  felt  in  a  happy  humor,  and  soon 
laughter,  and  music,  ai  d  song  reverberated  through  the  house.  This 
was  kept  up  until  dinner  was  announced ,  and  when  they  had  ar- 
ranged themselves  around  the  table,  and  before  they  were  seated, 
John  Henderson  said:  "This  is  the  first  time  I  have  ever  been  called 
upon  to  preside  at  my  own  family  table,  and  as  we  are  brought  to. 
gether  under  circumstances  in  which  the  finger  of  God  is  plainly  vis- 
ible, let  us  return  thanks." 

Then  with  this  tall  form  erect,  and  with  eyes  and  hands  uplifted, 
be  said,  "Oh,  God!  Thou  who  holdeth  myriads  of  worlds  in  place 
by  the  power  of  Thy  will,  and  yet  who  marketh  the  fall  of  the  spar- 
row, look  down  upon  this  family  and  the  friends  assembled,  on  this  the 
natal  day  of  the  Savior  of  the  world,  around  this  board  spread  with 
Thy  bounteous  gifts,  and  incline  each  heart  to  return  thanks  to  Thee; 
and  may  each  be  so  impressed  with  Thy  Divine  goodness  that  he  may 
go  hence  strong  in  his  faith  in  Thee,  and  an  earnest  soldier  of  the 
Cross/" 

John  Henderson  was  master  of  elocution,  and  this  simple  prayer 
brought  an  earnest  "amen!"  from  each  one  present. 


At  every  Christmas  since  the  above,  the  anniversary  of  this  jovial 
reunion  has  been  commemorated  by  the  Hendersons,  and  the  same 
guests  have  met  around  the  festive  board.  The  name  of  one  of  them 
however,  has  longed  since  been  changed.  High  chairs  have  to  be 
-  placed  at  the  table  for  the  grand  children,  and  Mrs.  Allen  Campbell 
has  a  seat  by  her  husband.  John  Henderson  holds  that,  as  one  can- 
not enjoy  a  good  meal  who  has  never  felt  hunger,  so  one  cannot  fully 
appreciate  genuine  happiness  who  has  not  seen  the  reverse;  and  he 
and  his  are  reaping  the  benefit  thus  arising,  by  comparison,  of  those 
bitter  days  when  in  anguish  of  spirit  he  cried  out:  "Mea  Culpa"- 
through  my  fault. 


f  I 


Liz," 


It  was  midsummer  in  the  heart  of  the  Sierras.  All  the  air  was 
fall  of  quivering  heat,  which  beat  against  the  mountain  side,  wither- 
ing the  petals  of  the  wild-flower  and  forcing  the  ferns  to  bend  their 
heads  and  drink  from  the  clear  streams  that  trickled  down  the 
slopes. 

The  birds,  overcome  by  the  heat,  were  too  indolent  to  fling;  and 
only  occasionally  could  one  pee  the  bright  wing  of  a  blue-bird  or  the 
red  breast  of  a  robin,  as  it  darted  through  the  air,  half  eagerly,  to 
snap  at  a  fly  asleep  in  the  purple  and  white  wanothies  thicket . 

The  miners  put  down  their  picks  and  shovels  to  wipe  the  perspira- 
tion from  their  brows,  then  lay  down  to  doze  under  the  pine  shade, 
for  it  was  too  hot  for  work.  They  looked  longingly  up  at  Sugarloaf , 
whose  summit,  almost  touching  the  clouds,  seemed  so  inviting  and 
cool. 

It  stood,  like  a  rock,  boldly  out  in  relief  from  the  undulating  sea 
of  foothills  covered  with  dry  grass,  and  the  sight  was  as  tantalizing 
as  the  mirage  of  the  desert  to  a  worn  traveler. 

The  dust  in  the  roads  was  yellow  and  thick,  and  when  the  stage 
made  its  daily  entrance  and  exit  into  and  from  Nevada  City,  their 
leaders  were  obscured  in  a  fine,  penetrating  mist  of  dust.  It  covered 
their  flanks  until  they  looked  as  if  they  were  emulating  the  poetical 
bee,  who  "powders  his  wings  with  gold.*'  It  settled  over  the  pas- 
penger^,  until  the  most  renowned  physiognomist  could  not  well  have 
discovered  a  line  of  distinctive  character  in  their  dirt-grimed  faces . 

Nevada  City  lies  in  a  gorge  in  the  mountains,  a  town  born  of  the 
mines,  and  of  mushroom.  Men  in  the  old  days  of  California  chiv- 
alry had  little  time  to  waste  in  architectural  design,  acd  the  cabins 
and  houses  scattered  here  and  there  were  without  regard  to  any  reg- 
ular plan.  The  town  was  built  by  men  who  had  come  to  work,  to 
wreet  from  the  earth  by  muscle  power,  their  fortunes — men  of 
indomitable  will  and  courage,  who  bad  little  time  to  spend  on  thft 
mere  comforts  of  living. 


104  xiz. 

5 '  •<,  **  r 

All  the  heat  was  concentrated  in  that  spot,  and  poured  down  in 
full  vigor  upon  the  rude  cabins,  scorching  the  leave.*  of  a  few  pre- 
viously guarded  rosebuehes  in  the  gardens,  even  exhausting  the  en- 
ergy of  the  hardy  pioneers,  who  were  content  to  sit  indoors  idly; 
while  the  chickens  drooped  about  the  yards,  and  the  ducks  reveled  in 
the  waters  of  the  ravine,  which  were  very  low  and  muddy,  for  the 
nun  had  drained  it  almost  dry,  and  only  a  shallow  stream  flowed  over 
the  yellow  clay. 

While  the  men  dozed,  a  young  girl  worked  steadily,  panning  out 
dirt  in  the  upper  part  of  the  stream,  with  her  head  bare,  in  the 
scorching  sunlight.  She  was  tall  and  brown.  Her  eyes  were  dark 
and  expressive,  and  her  rich  auburn  hair  fell  down  her  shoulders  in 
unkempt  profusion.  Her  shoulders  were  broad,  but  her  face  was 
young — the  face  of  a  child,  who  had  lived  more  in  the  years  of  her 
existence  than  was  well  for  her.  She  looked  as  Joan  D'Are  might 
have  looked  when  she  knitted  in  the  cottage  of  Lorraine,  while 
France  lay  bleeding,  and  the  nameless  ambition  was  stirring  in  her 
breast. 

Her  feet  were  encased  in  an  old  pair  of  men's  shoes.  There  was 
something  pitiful  about  the  expression  of  those  shoes,  supporting  her 
slender,  bare,  brown  ankles,  which  looked  too  slight  to  bear  such  a 
weight.  They  were  aristocratic-appearing  shoes,  but  their  original 
color  was  lost,  for  they  were  torn,  patched,  run  down  at  the  heel,  the 
soles  ragged;  still,  they  had  an  air  of  gentility,  as  if  they  had  seen 
better  days. 

They  turned  up  at  the  toes,  as  if  they  shrunk  in  disdain  f  roia  their 
surroundings. 

They  rolled  over  at  the  ankle,  as  if  they  shuddered  at  contact  with 
bare  flesh,  and  had  been  accustomed  to  silken  hose.  The  tracery  of 
arabesque  patterns  on  their  instep  stood  out  clearly,  and  reminded 
one  of  Mrs.  Skewton's  frippery  and  artificial  roses,  after  the  decay 
of youth. 

Liz  did  not  mind  the  shoes  as  she  worked,  although  they  were  go 
large  they  impeded  her  progress,  and  gave  her  a  sort  of  shuffling  gait. 
She  loosened  the  handkerchief  around  her  throat,  twisted  her  mass 
of  hair  carelessly  on  top  of  her  head,  tucked  her  ragged,  calico  dress 
further  up  from  the  water,  and  shook  her  rusty  pan  to  and  fro,  her 
eyes  bent  eagerly  in  their  search  for  particles  of  gold.  She  glanced 


IAZ.  105 

occasionally  from  her  work  at  a  figure  sleeping  under  a  tree  near  by, 
which  filled  the  air  with  a  chorus  of  enores  that  reverberated  through 
the  mountains  like  distant  growlings  of  thunder. 

"Well,  Liz,  what  luck  to-day  ?  I  see  the  old  dad  is  quietly 
snoozing.  It's  a  burning  shame  you  are  working  out  in  this  eun. 
It  is  hotter  than  Hades?." 

She  blushed,  as  the  speaker  came  in  view  from  behind  a  clump  of 
manzinita  bushes,  but  answered : 

"I'm  sort  of  used  to  it.  I  can't  get  much  blacker — and  poor  dad's 
head  ain't  just  right,  you  know,  Dick." 

Dick  whistled  significantly,  but  his  countenance  did  not  express 
much  sympathy  for  the  aforesaid  head,  for  he  thought  rightly,  whis- 
ky and  laziness  were  the  things  that  were  not  ''just  right." 

Dick  Beech  was  one  of  the  numerous  crowd  of  young  men  who  had 
drifted  along  with  the  tide  in  the  the  early  days,  landed  in  Califor- 
nia, and  patiently  sat  down,  waiting  for  fortune  to  come  to  him  in- 
stead of  troubling  himself  to  search  for  her.  He  counted  on  stum- 
bling on  a  big  thing  some  day,  so  despised  the  humble  panning  for 
gold  dust,  but  somehow  or  other  he  always  managed  to  obtain  a 
share  of  the  world's  goods. 

A  man  down  in  Grass  Valley  had  found  a  nugget  as  big  as  his  fist, 
one  day,  without  any  eftbrt  on  bis  part,  and  Dick  Beech  reasoned 
*that  if  the  man  from  Grass  Valley  found  a  nugget  as  big  as  his  fist, 
there  was  no  reason  why  Dick  Beech  shouldn't  pick  up  one  as  big  as 
his  head.'  He  therefore  quieted  his  conscience  by  this  questionable 
logic,  and  spent  most  of  his  time  in  waiting  for  the  above  mentioned 
result. 

He  possessed  a  smattering  of  a  college  education,  and  was  conse- 
quently looked  up  to  as  an  oracle  of  learning  by  the  simple-hearted 
miners.  He  had  befriended  "Drunken  Harry,'*  as  Liz's  father  was 
dubbed  by  his  associates,  and  so  had  earned  her  eternal  gratitude. 

She  was  not  accustomed  to  being  noticed,  and  did  not  court  it,  for 
the  few  women  in  town  drew  back  their  skirts  in  pharisaical  dismay 
when  she  pa?sed  near  them . 

The  daughter  of  a  drunkard,  a  giil  who  could  shoot  a  deer,  ride  a 
bronco  like  a  man,  and  work  in  the  digging,  was  a  ihing  never 
dreamed  of  in  their  philosophy . 

Liz  was  a  waif,  motherless   and  alone,  she   bad  nourished   like  a 


106  LIZ. 

weed  in  rich  soil,  and  had  grown  into  a  tall,  handsome  maiden,  de- 
fiant of  the  laws  of  society  and  the  creeds  of  man,  "free  as  the  moun- 
tain wind*,"  a  true  child  of  the  Sierra. 

The  mountains  and  her  dissolute  father  were  her  sole  companions. 

His  faults  were  only  forces  of  circumstance  to  her  and  she  idolized 
him. 

She  had  been  taught  by  an  old  man  named  Hugo  who  lived  a  her- 
mit's life  in  an  old  cabin,  so  she  was  not  entirely  ignorant. 

Dick  Beech  was  a  revelation  to  her.  He  belonged  to  a  class  she 
only  saw  in  her  dreams  and  while  she  often  treated  him  scornfully  as 
she  did  the  rest,  she  reserved  a  higher  place  in  her  heart  for  him  be- 
cause he  had  helped  her  father. 

"I'm  used  to  the  heat,"  she  said:  "I  like  work  only  there's  noth- 
ing to  pay  for  it  to-day." 

"Come  Liz!  Your  dad's  asleep.  Come  sit  in  the  shade.  I  want 
to  talk  to  you. 

She  shook  her  head  determinedly. 

"I  shall  stay  here  all  night,  until  I  get  something  when  I  make  up 
my  mind  to  do  a  thing  I  intend  to  do  it  if  it  kills  me." 

"Dear  me!  Heroism  in  calico.  A  new  Judith — a  coming  Portia 
of  the  Sierra!" 

"I'm  just  Liz  Byrnes.  No  fooling,  Dick  Beech,"  she  said  stop- 
ping her  work,  her  dark  eyes  sparkling,  as  if  he  had  intended  an  in- 
suit. 

"Well,"  he  laughed,  "don't  show  fight.  It's  honorable  company 
I  placed  you  in." 

Then  he  stretched  himgelf  out  full  length  on  the  dry  grass  idly 
stirring  the  water  with  a  stick;  and  regarding  Liz  curiously. 

The  sunshine  brought  out  every  tint  clearly  on  the  hillside — the 
blue  green  of  the  pine  tassels  the  purple  brown  brinks,  the  rich  red  of 
the  manzinita  wood,  the  gloss  of  the  madrona  leaves  mingled  with  the 
emerald  of  the  live  oak  foliage  and  the  surrounding  mountains  reveal- 
ed dark  against  a  eky  of  intense  cloudless  blue. 

The  granite  bowlders  sparkled  like  monster  diamonds  in  the  strong 
sunlight  which  beat  down  upon  Liz's  head  causing  each  hair  to  shine 
Mke  a  thread  of  gold. 

She  would  have  well  served  for  a  model  of  the  vestal  Taccia  as  she 


LIZ.  10T 

raised  the  pan  over  her  head  to  relieve  her  arms  from  their  cramped 
constant  motion. 

Dick  Beech  lay  there  listlessly  watching,  anathematizing  her  drowsy 
father  but  never  imagining  that  he  might  relieve  her  for  awhile. 

"You  will  have  a  sunstroke,"  he  said.  "I  insist  upon  you  covering 
your  head,  or  I  shall  borrow  that  inverted  basket  from  that  China- 
man down  there." 

"Liz,  do  you  know  that  you  are  very  pretty  ?" 

She  opened  her  eyes  wonderingly. 

"You  are  as  bad  as  the  boys  who  call  me  names.  I  never  looked 
at  myself." 

"I  wish  I  could  paint  you  just  as  you  are.  Unfortunately  I  have 
never  learned  how. " 

"These  duds  would  be  pretty  things  in  a  picture,"  she  replied 
touching  them.  Why  don't  you  go  'long  and  talk  to  Nancy  Brown? 
I'm  busy." 

"Because  you  interest  me,  and  she  don't  like  you  Liz,  just  as  1 
prefer  a  wild  flower  to  a  cultivated  one.  I'ts  a  matter  of  taste.  I  think 
we  were  intended  for  each  other  and  I  love  you  Liz  " 

He  moved  a  little  farther  into  the  shade  as  he  looked  at  her  stead- 

iiy. 

She  laughed  though  her  heart  beat  fast  with  happiness. 

"I  could  work  and  you  be  a  gentleman.  I  would  like  a  man  like 
old  Hugo  used  to  read  of — a  knight  who  would  fight  for  me,  go 
through  everything  for  me,  die  if  need  be — and  kill  bears,"  she  said 
merrily. 

"Dick,  I  heard  about  your  hunt  the  other  day.  If  I  had  had  your 
chancel  would  have  shot  him  instead  of  climbing  a  tree.  I  will  love 
you  on  one  condition:  that  you  bring  me  a  young  grizzly  for  a  pet." 

"I  don't  care  about  sharing  affections,  and  I'm  afraid  the  bear 
would  be  the  strongest  party  Liz,"  he  said  suddenly.  "OaeofHaiii 
Jones'  girls  is  going  to  be  married  to-night.  Going  to  the  wed- 
ding?" 

It  was  intended  as  a  Koland  for  her  Oliver,  she  looked  at  him. 
her  eyes  snapping  with  anger. 

"How  dare  you  ask  me?  I'm  not  good  enongh  for  them.  Any- 
way weddings  are  curious  things.  I  see  them  dancing  and  kissing; 
in  a  year  they  fight  like  wildcats,  then  two  to  one  they  leave  one  an- 


108  LIZ. 

other.  It's  like  dad's  game.  Head  or  tails.  I  don't  believe  in 
weddings ." 

"But  Liz,  suppose  two  people  love  one  another?" 

"Well  Dick,  what  is  love  ?" 

'"That's  a  stunner.  Oh!  I  don't  know  exactly.  A  sort  of  a — a 
kind  of  a  feeling  when  two  people  care  for  each  other,  and  one  can't 
live  without  the  other.  There  was  Abelard  and  Heloi°e,  Romeo  and 
Juliet." 

Liz  tossed  her  h*ad  scornfully. 

"I  can  tell  you.  It's  always  sorrow  and  trouble  for  one  of  them. 
There  was  the  baker's  Lize.  She  was  in  love  and  stepped  round  as 
if  she  was  walking  on  eggs;  but  Tim  married  another  woman  and  in- 
stead of  eggs.  I  reckon  she  thought  it  was  pretty  heavy  and  now  she 
is  a  half-witted  creature.  That  is  what  love  does.  Don't  talk  to  me 
of  that  nonsense.  Weddings  and  funerals  are  mighty  like.  Some- 
times the  first  is  a  living  death,  the  other  a  restful  one." 

A  slight  breeze  blew  down  from  the  summit  of  Sugar-loaf,  stirring 
the  pines  into  motion,  fanning  the  air  and  creating  a  purer  atmos- 
phere. 

The  shadows  of  the  pines  were  lengthening  and  the  color  of  the 
mountain  crests  changing  to  a  golden  purple  in  the  setting  sun. 

Liz  pulled  down  her  sleeves,  called  to  the  figure  underneath  the 
tree,  which  grunted  in  reply,  and,  grasping  a  black  bottle,  started  to 
its  feet.  The  rags,  unfolded,  developed  themselves  into  a  resem- 
blance to  clothes,  and  a  man  rose,  blinking  in  the  light  with  blood- 
shot eyes,  and  waited  until  Liz  shouldered  the  pick,  shovel  and  pan; 
then  lazily  joined  her. 

She  whispered  to  Dick:  "Go  !  Dad  can't  bide  you.  He  gets  in 
such  temper  sometimes,  he  might  hurt  you." 

Dick  obediently  slipped  back  through  the  thicket  from  which  he 
had  come. 

"Got  anything  to-day  Lazybones?"  he  growliugly  asked. 

"Not  much,  dad,"  Liz  answered,  gently;  for  her  voice  was  al- 
ways soft  to  him. 

They  walked  together  up  the  lonely  pa*h  to  their  board  shanty, 
which  stood  across  the  ravine  opposite  the  town,  in  a  grove  of  ma- 
drona  trees.  No  miner  ever  possessed  .such  a  rickety,  desolate  old 
cabin  as  "Drunken  Harry,*'  and  like  its  owner,  it  looked  as  if  it  wag 


LI*.  109 

intoxicated  and  ou  its  last  legs.  The  planks  were  nailed  on  the  frame 
unevenly,  at  a  tipsy  looking  angle;  the  nails  were  half  out,  as  if 
bound  for  a  spree,  and  the  shingle  roof  was  patched  ia  uneven  heaps 
with  cloth,  hrush,  odd  bits  of  lumber  and  old  petroleum  «ans,  until  it 
appeared  as  if  it  were  suffering  from  a  mild  form  of  delirium  tremens. 
Handsome  Liz  looked  as  much  out  of  her  place  in  the  hovel  as  a 
queen  in  a  stable-yard,  or  a  yellow  primrose  growing  out  of  the  bar- 
ren rock  cliffs  by  the  sea. 

"Dad,"  said  she,  leading  him  in,  "don't  take  any  more  of  your 
medicine  to-night,  it  makes  you  so  cross." 

"Shut  up  !  tend  to  your  pertatoes.  This  is  jest  the  stuff  that  puts 
life  into  a  fellow.  When  I  feel  sick  or  down  sperited,  I  jest  take  a 
sip  from  this  bottle/'  patting  it  affectionately,  "then  I  feel  straight, 
and  says  to  myself,  'Harry,  you're  a  gentleman.'  " 

Liz  left  him  while  he  continued  talking  to  himself  in  a  maudlin 
way.  She  suspected  the  quality  of  the  medicine  but  said  nothing, 
because  he  was  her  father,  the  only  person  in  the  world,  near  to  her, 
the  only  one  who  had  spoken  kindly  to  her  during  the  lonesome  nine- 
teen years  she  had  lived  in  the  world . 

The  women  in  the  town  were  cruel  to  her  and  avoided  her  as  they 
would  a  crotalua  on  the  mountain  rocks,  so  ehe  lived  a  strange  life 
alone,  with  nature  and  a  drunken  father.  She  had  learned  the  les- 
son of  silence,  and  however  hard  she  worked,  however  heavy  her 
burdens,  she  never  complained. 

"Dad,  supper  is  ready,"  she  called. 

•<Ugh,"  he  growled,  "a  few  ashy  potatoes." 

"There's  a  bit  of  meat  for  you.' 

"That's  well;  your  pore  dad's  sick,  Liz;  you  wouldn't  take  it 
from  him,  would  you?" 

She  pushed  the  morsel  towards  him. 

"I'm  going  down  town;  mind  you  keep  close  to  the  shanty.  Got 
any  dust  'bout  you?" 

She  took  the  little  she  had  found  from  her  pocket,  and  looked  at 
him  beseechingly,  laying  her  hand  on  his  arm. 

"Do  you  think,  dad,"  she  said,  looking  up  into  his  face,  "that 
you  need  more  medicine,"  slightly  emphasizing  the  word.  "This  is 
all  I  have  for  bread,  and  we  have  no  more  in  the  house." 


110  LIZ. 

He  pushed  her  roughly  from  him  and  whined  :  "  You'd  let  your 
pore  old  dad  die  and  you'd  never  keer." 

She  handed  him  the  dust  silently  and  went  out  of  the  rojm,  while 
he  slunk  down  the  trail  quickly  toward  the  town,  for  his  throat  was 
dry  and  parched,  burning  for  liquor  to  moisten  and  relieve  it. 

Tears  gathered  in  her  eyes  as  she  watched  his  shambling  figure 
disappear  down  the  slope,  but  she  brushed  them  away  impatiently 
and  returaed  to  the  house,  to  straighten  up  a  bit,  which  did  not  take 
her  long,  for  Liz  had  not  besn  taught  that  great  principle  "  which  is 
akin  to  godliness,"  and  is  never  inherent. 

She  went  out  and  sat  on  a  stump  of  a  pine  tree  which  stood  near 
her  door.  The  air  was  sweet  and  balmy,  redolent  with  pine  fragrance 
and  odor  of  plumy  buck-eye  blossoms.  The  feverish  heat  was  gone. 
Nature's  pulse  beat  faster,  and  a  pleasing  cool  reigned  over  valley 
and  mountain.  Venus  peeped  over  the  tops  of  the  pines,  and  peered 
down  upon  the  girl  sitting  all  alone  in  the  forest.  The  new  moon, 
bent  like  Diana's  bow,  shone  in  the  skies,  while  all  around  clustered 
myriads  of  bright  stars,  like  golden-winged  baes  round  a  wondrous 
tropical  bloom.  The  lights  twinkled  down  in  the  town  like  glow- 
worms' lanterns,  and  the  breeze  wafted  up  to  the  heights  faint  echoes 
of  laughter  and  merry  life.  Liz  gazed  at  the  stars,  and  wondered 
"  if  beings  who  lived  up  there  were  ever  poor  and  lonely  as  she  was." 
Hugo  had  told  her  "  they  were  other  worlds,"  and  she  conjured  up 
many  fantastic  fancies  in  her  mind  in  regard  to  their  inhabitants. 
"  They  were  PO  bright,  people  must  be  happy  there,"  she  sighed. 
"  There  is  so  much  misery  here,  I  know  the  world  cannot  shine  like 
that." 

She  looked  down  at  the  town,  and  rebellious  thoughts  stirred  in 
her  breast  as  she  thought  of  Dick  Beech  and  his  pretty  speeches. 
Puttijg  a  shawl  on  her  head,  she  concluded  that  she  would  go  down 
and  see  the  wedding,  where  she  could  see  him  also.  She  walked 
down  the  bill,  crossed  the  narrow  flume  that  spanned  the  ravine,  and 
went  to  the  house  where  the  merry-making  was.  It  was  a  typical 
miner's  wedding.  The  fiddler  was  sitting  on  a  chair  placed  on  an 
old  dry  goods  box,  busily  spinning  off  reels,  Tom  Tucker's  various 
medleys,  and  calling  out  "  alaman  right,  alaman  left." 

Some  of  the  miners  who  had  slept  in  the  daytime  were  dancing  in 
their  beat  style,  cutting  innumerable  pigeon  wings  as  they  swung: 


uz.  Ill 

their  partners.  The  windows  were  open  and  Liz  crowded  close  to 
the  wall,  watching  Dick  Beech  eagerly  as  he  danced  with  the  rural 
belles, 

Her  eyes  bnrned  with  jealousy  as  she  watched  him  look  at  Nancy 
Brown  with  the  same  tenderness  he  had  bestowed  on  her  in  the  after- 
noon, and  she  felt  as  if  she  could  gladly  plunge  a  knife  into  Nancy's 
heart.  "  Indian  blood  flowed  in  Liz's  veins,"  they  said,  and  surely 
she  possessed  a  haughty,  deep,  passionate  nature,  that  might  well 
have  descended  to  her  from  an  Indian  princess. 

She  watched  them  as  they  played  games  and  drank  whisky.  The 
noise  grew  louder,  the  men  more  hilarious,  and  when  the  fiddler 
called  out,  (s  salute  your  partners,"  they  availed  themselves  of  a  lib- 
eral interpretation,  and  imprinted  a  rousing  kiss  on  each  buxom 
maid's  lips.  She  did  not  know  how  long,  but  the  company  showed 
signs  of  dispersing,  and  she  stole  away  home. 

When  she  reached  the  bottom  of  the  hill  she  noticed  a  light  burn- 
ing in  the  cabin,  and  her  heart  almost  stood  still,  for  she  knew  her 
father's  moods  were  not  plea&ant  after  he  had  been  indulging  too 
freely  in  "  medicine."  As  she  came  near  she  saw  him  walking  back 
and  forth,  looking  very  savage,  but  Liz  did  not  know  what  terror 
was,  so  she  went  boldly  in. 

'Where  hev  you  ben  this  time  o'  night  ?"  he  growled,  showing 
his  teeth  like  a  wild  animal.  "  A  pretty  time  fur  an  honest  gal  to 
be  prowlin'  round  the  country. ' ' 

He  came  near  to  her,  raising  his  arm  as  if  to  strike  her,  but  she 
looked  him  steadily  and  defiantly  in  the  eyes.  "It's  no  matter;  I'm 
used  to  looking  out  for  myself." 

"A  fine  care  you  take.  They  are  talkhV  'bout  you,  an*  that  cur- 
ly-headed, smooth-tongued  chap  down  town;  and  I  tell  you,  Liz 
Byrnes,  if  I  ketch  him  'round  here,  I'll  crack  his  head  quicker  than 
you  can  say  'Jack  Robinson.' ' 

She  did  not  answer,  biting  her  lips  to  keep  down  the  angry  words. 

"You  defy  me,  do  you?    I'll  show  you!" 

Then  in  a  sudden  fit  of  rage  he  picked  up  a  gnarled  manzanita  log 
and  struck  her.  Its  aim  was  sure,  it  hit  her  on  the  shoulder  and 
the  blood  oozed  through  her  thin  calico  dress. 

He  looked  at  her  as  if  afraid .     She  started  to   speak.     Her   face 


112  LIZ. 

turned  deadly  pale,  while  the  red  blood  slowly  dropping,  stained  her 
drees. 

A  look  of  hatred  flashed  in  her  eyes;  then  she  turned  away  silent- 
ly, wiped  off  the  blood,  while  he  slunk  into  the  next  room  as  if  afraid 
to  meet  her  gaze.  It  was  the  first  time  he  had  struck  her.  He  had 
cureed  her,  but  the  sound  was  familiar  to  her.  That  one  cut  burned 
into  her  very  soul,  and  she  felt  she  could  never  forgive  him. 

The  next  morning  she  went  to  her  work  as  usual,  and  he  sneaked 
off  down  town  before  she  was  up. 

The  July  sun  had  gathered  a  renewed  force,  but  she  worked  sul- 
lenly on,  only  stopping  once  in  a  while  to  pour  some  water  on  her 
throbbing  head.  The  heat  was  so  intense  a  steam  arose  from  her 
damp  hair.  She  worked  savagely,  trying  to  stifle  the  bitter  feelings  in 
her  heart,  which  hurt  far  more  than  the  burning  pain  in  her  shoulder. 

"Harry's  Liz  has  struck  a  good  streak  to-day,"  the  miners  said  as 
she  found  an  unusual  quantity  of  dust,  but  she  never  heeded  nor 
answered  them. 

Dick  Beech  sauntered  down  about  the  usual  time  in  the  afternoon. 

"How  goes  it,  Liz?" 

She  vouchsafed  him  no  answer. 

"Liz  what's  the  matter?  Sulks  to-day?" 

Still  no  answer.     She  kept  on  working. 

"Don't  be  so  hard  on  a  fellow.  It'e  confounded  hot,  I  wanted  a 
sight  of  you  to  refresh  me." 

She  lifted  her  eyes  for  the  first  time,  and  looked  at  him  with  a 
peculiar,  searching  expression  and  answered:  "I  think  you  could 
find  refreshment  nearer  home.  Nancy  Brown  is  good  enough  for 
some  folks  to  look  at." 

"  *O,  Jealousy,  thy  name  is  woman!'  "  he  laughed.  "Why  Liz, 
your  little  finger  is  worth  her  whole  body.  But  you  know,"  he  con- 
tinued, "a  fellow  has  got  to  have  some  fun.  He  can't  sit  in  a  cor- 
ner. Some  day  when  I  get  rich  it  will  be  different.  What  makes 
you  look  so  fierce?  I  believe  you  would  be  equal  to  the  Moor  of 
Venice,  if  I  loved  any  one  else,  and  smother  me  as  he  did  poor 
Desdemona." 

"I  could  smother  you  or  kill  you,  Dick  Beech,  if  you  were  false 
to  me.  I  suppose  I  am  not  good  enough  for  the  likes  of  you,  but 


uz.  113 

none  of  them  will  love  you  any  better,  Dick."  And  her  expression 
grew  tenderer  as  she  said  the  words. 

"I  wish  that  you  didn't  have  such  an  awful  temper." 

Mr.  Richard  Beech's  private  opinion  was  that  he  was  too  good  for 
Liz  Byrnes;  and  they  were  both  attracted  to  each  other  by  the  law 
of  opposition.  She  was  handsome  and  strong.  He  was  polished 
and  weak,  and  an  ardent  admirer  of  the  beautiful.  He  was  kind'to 
her,  and  she  placed  him  in  a  niche  of  her  heart,;with  her  father,*as 
the  priests  place  the  images  of  the  saints  in  the  ^cathedral,  giving  to 
each  a  shrine  above  the  world  below. 

"What  is  that  stain  on  your  dress?  It  looks  like  blood.  Has 
anybody  hurt  you?" 

"No,"  she  answered,  looking  away  from  him.  "I  only  fell  down 
on  a  stone  and  cut  myself ." 

She  despised  a  falsehood,  but  was  too  loyal  to  expose  her  father, 
even  to  the  man  she  loved. 

"Liz,  if  it  were  not  for  your  father  we  would  be  married." 

"Yes?"  she  said  dreamily, 

"But  I  never  could  stand  him." 

"The  knights,  Hugo  read  of  stood  everything  for  the  ladies  they 
loved.  They  killed  giants  and  overcame  dragons.  They  were  strong 
to  stand  everything,  and  Dick,  they  would  have  waited  patiently, 
with  brave  hearts.  Poor  old  dad  would  not  trouble  you.  You  don't 
know  him  as  I  do,  and — I  can  never  leave  him  alone." 

"In  this  nineteenth  century,  Liz,  knights  are  not  as  plenty  as  black- 
berries. The  Bound  table  is  a  romance  after  all.  Their  wonderful 
Sir  Lancelot,  was  not  so  fine,  he  was  human." 

"But,"  she  said  earnestly,  the  color  creeping  into  her  cheeks,  like 
the  rosy  glow  over  the  summit  of  the  Sierras  in  the  eventide,  "peo- 
ple don't  need  to  fight  battles  with  their  hands,  old  Hugo  says.  The 
beasts  are  in  the  heart  we  must  conquer.  Sometimes  I  feel  as  if  a 
liou  was  caged  in  mine,  and  it  is  hard  work  to  keep  him  quiet." 

Then,  as  if  half  confused  at  her  own  confusion,  she  worked  on. 

"Life  is  short  enough,  without  so  much  trouble.  I  will  see  you 
again.  I  must  go,  for  I  have  an  engagement." 

She  nodded  good-bye  cheerfully,  and  her  heart  felt  lighter  as  she 
went  home  in  the  evening. 


114  LIZ. 

The  cabin  was  deserted,  no  signs  of  her  father  anywhere. 

She  lighted  a  fire,  and  tried  to  cook  an  inviting  meal.  She  waited 
for  an  hour;  still  he  did  not  come,  and,  being  tired  from  her  work, 
ehe  laid  down  on  her  cot,  and  fell  asleep. 

When  she  awoke  it  was  dark,  arid  the  moon  was  shining  in  her 
face.  She  looked  out  of  the  door,  down  the  lone:  aisles  of  pines,  but 
he  was  not  there.  The  night  was  misty,  so  she  thought  she  would 
walk  down  to  the  flume,  where  he  usually  crossed,  and  wait  for  him 
there.  She  sat  there  for  hours,  it  seemed  her  heart  filled  with  tender 
hopes  and  fears.  "Dick  loves  me.  He  loves  me/'  she  said  over  and 
over  to  herself.  The  words  sounded  sweet  to  her.  Her  heart  soft- 
ened towards  her  father,  as  she  eat  there  breathing  in  the  pure  moun- 
tain air.  The  air  was  heavy  with  the  intense  odor  of  wild  azalea 
blossoms.  The  moon  had  gone  down  and  it  was  very  dark.  She  did 
not  mind  the  blackness,  for  Dick  loved  her.  She  knew  it,  she  felt 
it.  The  wound  on  her  shoulder  smarted,  but  she  smiled,  as  she  drew 
her  shawl  clo«er  around  her,  and  half  laughed  to  herself,  when  she 
thought  that  yesterday,  she  had  minded  so  small  a  thing — so  small  a 
thing. 

At  last  through  the  stillness,  she  heard  a  step  coming  towards  the 
flume.  The  trail  was  covered  with  dried  pine  needles  and  every  step 
was  very  distinct.  She  saw  as  he  came  nearer,  that  he  staggered 
more  than  usual.  She  roee  and  called  to  him  through  her  hands. 

"Don't  cross.     Go  up  to  the  bridge." 

He  answered  her  with  an  oath,  and  stepped  on  to  the  narrow  en- 
closed flume,  which  was  just  the  width  of  a  plank.  Liz  started  to 
go  to  him,  but  he  waived  his  hands  wildly,  commanding  her  to  "go 
back." 

Through  fear  for  his  safety,  she  obeyed*  Her  heart  beat  fast  as 
she  watched,  with  strained  eyes,  through  the  darkness,  and  saw  his 
form  swaying  from  one  side  to  the  other. 

She  saw  him  stumble,  and  regain  his  balance.  He  reached  the 
middle.  She  breathed  more  freely.  He  stopped,  and  continued 
gesticulating.  Throwing  his  arms  up  he  missed  his  balance  and  fell. 
Liz  heard  a  sickening  sound  as  he  struck  the  rocks  below.  He 
groaned  once — and  all  was  perfect  silence — a  terrible  quiet.  She 
stood  on  the  bank  alone,  a*  one  petrified,  She  tried  to  move,  her 


LIZ.  115 

liinbs  seemed  bound  with  icy  chains.  At  last  she  screamed,  and 
scrambled  down  the  steep  declivity  as  rapidly  as  possible.  Her  cries 
reached  the  ears  of  a  passing  miner,  and  he  hurried  to  the  spot,  and 
peered  down  into  the  darkness  with  his  lantern.  Liz  was  sitting 
there,  helplessly  holding  her  father's  head  on  her  lap,  and  beseeching 
him  to  speak.  The  man  went  to  her,  and  felt  old  Harry's  pulse. 

"It's  all  up  with  him.  Wait  till  I  get  some  help.  How  did  you 
find  him  ?" 

"Lying  with  his  face  in  the  water.  But  he  is  not  dead.  It  was 
so  shallow,  and  he  has  only  one  cut  on  his  head.  He  is  not  dead," 
she  cried,  wildly. 

The  miner  shook  his  head,  and  said  roughly,  but  kindly: 

"I've  seen  'em  drown  in  an  inch,  when  the  jim-jams  was  on  'em, 
and  it's  as  good  to  die  by  water  as  whisky." 

Liz  wrung  her  hands.  She  could  not  cry,  and  her  eyes  burned 
like  fire.  The  miner  obtained  assistance,  and  they  bore  the  lifeless 
body  to  the  cabin,  and  proffered  their  rude  help,  but  she  preferred 
to  be  left  alone. 

There  was  no  woman's  hand  to  soothe  or  comfort;  not  one  came 
near  to  whisper  words  of  consolation  to  relieve  her  aching  heart. 
She  hoped  Dick  would  come  to  her,  but  she  was  left  entirely  alone 
with  her  dead,  and  when  the  men  came  to  bury  him,  they  said: 

"She  was  so  white  it  was  hard  to  tell  which  was  the  corpse." 

She  grieved  for  him  passionately,  mourned  because  she  could  not 
tell  him  she  forgave.  Her  pan  lay  idle  in  the  corner;  money  was 
so  little  to  her  that  she  had  no  incentive  to  work;  still,  unless  she 
roused  herself  she  must  starve.  She  started  out  one  afternoon  more 
with  the  secret  hope  of  seeing  Dick  than  with  any  other  object.  She 
looked  white  and  worn,  a  mere  shadow  of  herself,  walking  in  the 
sunlight  like  some  poor  soul,  out  of  place  in  the  worlt  She  sat 
down  on  the  bank  and  a  familiar  whistle  startled  her,  which  brought 
the  color  into  her  cheeks. 

"Hello,  Liz,"  he  exclaimed,  "so  you  have  crawled  out  of  your 
shell  at  last."  His  face  had  an  uneasy  expression.  "I  thought  that 
I  wouldn't  disturb  you/'  he  said  apologetically.  "I  could  not  do  any 
good,  and  I  hate  funerals,  and  such  reminders.  Now,  Liz,  what  are 
you  going  to  do?" 


116  LIZ. 

She  looked  at  him  earnestly,  but  he  turned  away,  on  pretense  of 
plucking  a  cluster  of  manzanita  berries  that  hung  above  his  head. 

"I — well,  the  fact  is,  I'm  poor,  Liz.  We  must  wait  for  a  while 
still." 

A  disappointed  expression  stole  across  her  face  for  a  moment ;  then 
she  replied  simply: 

"lean  wait,  Dick." 

O  woman  !  thy  faith  is  infinite,  thy  heart  long  enduring,  long  suf- 
fering; when  love  enters  it  it  is  blind,  and  feels  not  fault  or  defect  in 
the  loved  one,  content  to  be  happy,  even  in  waiting. 

Liz  took  up  her  work  and  said  to  herself:  * 'I  shall  work  for  Dick; 
now  I  have  another  object  in  living." 

August,  with  its  heat,  passed  by,  and  the  few  orchards  were  laden 
with  ripe,  red-cheeked  peaches  and  golden  pears,  a  fortune  to  their 
pOFsesFors  in  the  early  days  of  California,  when  peaches  and  pears 
sold  for  a  dollar  apiece.  Gold  was  more  plentiful  than  fruit. 

September's  breezes  were  cooler,  the  young  quail  filled  the  canons 
with  the  whir  of  their  wings,  the  dog-wood  fruit  clustered  ripe  and 
red  as  berries  of  coral,  and  the  dry  graFS  waved  long  and  yellow  in 
the  sunlight. 

One  morning  Liz  went  down  town  to  obtain  some  supplies,  for 
Dick  had  gent  her  some  money  as  a  present  by  a  boy  that  day. 

She  was  quietly  making  preparations  little  by  little,  when  she 
could  spare  a  hard  earned  dollar,  for  the  happy  event  she  looked  for- 
ward to  as  being  near. 

She  saw  knots  of  men  gathered  in  the  street,  discussing  something 
very  excitedly.  She  went  into  a  store  and  asked: 

"What  is  the  matter?" 

"They  jist  took  Dick  Beech  up  to  the  calaboose  for  stealin'  Long 
Tom's  pile  last  night,  who  lives  above  you,  and  they  are  going  to 
try  him  right  off.  Better  go  down  to  the  court-house.  He  is  a  tri- 
flin*  sort  of  chap,  anyhow." 

Liz  put  down  her  purchase,  took  up  the  money,  and  walked  out. 

She  Faw  a  man  she  knew  on  the  street. 

"Is  this  true  I  have  heard  ?"  she  asked. 

"Bet  yer,  it  is.  There's  bin  lots  of  theivin'  done  here  lately.  I 
hope  they'll  string  him  up." 


LIZ.  117 

She  turned  away,  and  followed  the  stream  of  men,  women  and 
children  who  were  running  toward  the  large,  wooden  courthouse.  A 
crow  1  was  already  gathered  there,  the  judge  seated  a  platform,  the 
prisoner  on  one  side,  the  two  attorneys  on  the  other — miners  who 
possessed  a  smattering  of  law,  law  suited  to  their  prejudices,  who 
were  acting  for  the  prosecution  and  defense .  The  court  preserved  a 
semblance  of  order. 

The  jury  was  impaneled,  the  men  constituting  it,  of  course,  were 
miners,  and  their  threatening  looks  towards  the  prisoner  at  the  bar 
did  not  tend  to  reassure  him.  Liz  stood  in  the  back  of  the  room  lis- 
tening breathlessly. 

Dick  sat  with  his  head  bowed,  tjembling  like  a  man  with  the 
ague.  The  prosecuting  witness  was  called. 

Long  Tom  shuffled  up,  attired  in  his  Sunday  best,  a  suit  of  but- 
ternut which  his  hair  and  eyes  matched  exactly,  proclaiming  his  de- 
scent, unmistakably,  "from  Pike  county,  Missouri."  He  appeared 
as  uneasy  as  a  young  barrister  wrestling  with  his  maiden  speech. 

"Waal,"  he  began,  "I  jest  handed  over  the  dishes  and  truck,  for 
Topsy,  my  dawg,  to  lick,  when  I  thought  uv  somethin'  I  wanted 
down  town,  so  I  left  my  pile  in  an  'ole  sack  under  my  bunk,  some 
dust  and  pieces  of  silver,  'bout  a  handful,  I  reckon.  I  was  gone 
jest  'bout  an  hour.  When  I  come  in  the  bag  was  settin'  in  the  mid- 
dle of  the  floor.  I  tuk  it  up  and  shook  it.  It  was  as  empty  as  Job's 
turkey,  and  I'd  seen  Dick  Beech  skulkin'  'round  thar  awhile  before, 
and  no  one  else  was  near.  I'd  know  that  silver  this  side  uv  Halifax, 
'cause  I  cut  an  X,  my  mark,  on  each  of  them  four  bit  pieces." 

Liz  started,  and  looked  at  the  money  in  her  hand.  There  was 
the  mark,  ill  cut  and  jagged,  but  plain  as  day. 

She  closed  her  fingers  tightly  over  the  pieces,  and  a  faintness  came 
over  her.  She  staggered,  caught  hold  of  a  bench  near,  for  now  she 
knew  Dick  Beech  was  a  guilty  man,  a  criminal,  and — she  loved 
him. 

Long  Tom  descended  from  the  stand  with  a  well  satisfied  air. 
The  attorney  for  the  defense  spoke  a  few  moments,  evidently  as  a 
matter  of  form,  for  hia  argument  was  lame  and  weak,  showing  his 
spirit  was  not  in  the  work.  The  jury  returned,  and  rendered  their 
verdict  of  guilty.  The  judge  said: 


118  LIZ. 

"Prisoner  at  the  bar,  the  court  has  found  when  a  man  is  found 
guilty  of  the  crime  of  theft,  he  should  be  hanged  by  the  neck  until 
he  is  dead." 

Being  prompted  by  a  man  standing  near,  he  hurriedly  added, 
"  May  God  have  mercy  on  your  soul."  This  was  a  first  case  and 
the  honorable  judge  was  not  quite  posted. 

"Do  you  know  any  reason  why  the  law  should  not  take  its 
course?" 

A  hush  fell  upon  the  crowded  room,  and  they  looked  intently  at 
the  prisoner  who  never  lifted  his  head.  The  flies  buzzing  in  the 
sunshine  on  the  window  panes  were  the  only  sounds  that  broke  the 
intense  silence.  The  expression  of  the  faces  of  the  people  was  as 
eager  as  that  of  the  spectators  in  old  gladiatorial  conflicts,  for  the  ani- 
mal was  rising  in  their  natures,  and  they  thirsted  for  blood.  To 
them  a  human  life  was  very  little,  but  a  man's  property  by  the  laws 
of  the  mining  camp  was  sacred. 

Dick  lifted  his  head,  looking  haggard  and  appealingly  towards  the 
crowd  as  if  seeking  sympathy,  but  there  was  none  for  the  guilty  in 
all  those  upturned  faces.  Before  he  could  reply  Liz  pushed  her  way 
through  the  crowd,  and  stood  before  the  judge,  who  regarded  her 
sternly.  Two  bright  spots  burned  on  her  cheeks.  She  looked  straight 
at  Dick  when  she  spoke,  and  the  people  listened  breathlessly. 

"  If  it  please  your  honor,  I  am  guilty,"  she  said  proudly,  looking 
steadfastly  at  Dick.  A  gleam  of  joy  and  relief  passed  over  his  coun- 
tenance. The  color  died  from  her  face.  A  weary  look  came  into  her 
eyes. 

"Does  the  man  recognize  this  ?  "  she  asked,  holding  out  a  few  dol- 
lars in  her  hand. 

Tom  came  forward.  "  Yes,"  he  said  joyfully,  "  that's  my  mark. 
I  could  swear  to  it." 

Dick  covered  his  face  with  his  hands  and  would  not  look  at  her, 
but  her  eyes  never  left  him,  looking  at  him  as  if  she  could  read  right 
through  hi'?  cowardly  soul. 

"  I  am  willing  to  die,  judge,  only  let  it  be  soon.  You  shall  have 
the  rest.  Only  let  me  speak  once  to  this  gentleman." 

Groans  of  derision  burst  from  the  crowd,     A  boy  threw  a  sone 


LIZ.  119 

which  struck  her,  but  she  stood  there  as  if  turned  to  stone  and  did 
not  utter  a  word. 

"Bad  blood,  bad  stock  coming  out,"  she  heard  them  say,  and 
there  was  not  one  voice  in  all  the  town  lifted  in  pity  or  sympathy  for 
her. 

"  What  you've  got  to  say,  say  quickly,"  commanded  the  judge. 

She  went  to  Dick  and  whispered  to  him.  He  tried  to  kiss  her 
hand,  but  she  snatched  it  quickly  away,  rubbing  it  as  if  his  touch 
contaminated  it. 

"  You  will  find  everything  in  my  cabin  to-night,"  she  said  quietly 
to  the  judge.  "  I  have  nothing  more  to  say.  I  am  guilty. 

Dick  Beech  walked  out  of  the  room  a  free  man.  He  was  pitied 
and  praised  while  she  was  reviled  by  every  tongue,  and  he  did  not 
say  even  one  word  in  defense  of  her.  As  the  officer  was  escorting 
her  to  jail,  they  passed  by  a  door  of  a  saloon  where  he  was  in  the  act 
of  drinking.  The  glass  was  raised  to  his  lips .  She  merely  glanced 
at  him,  but  there  was  a  world  of  love,  misery,  disappointment  and 
reproach  in  that  single  look.  He  let  the  glass  fall.  It  shivered  in  a 
thousand  atoms  on  the  floor,  and  he  went  home  to  his  room. 

Far  sweeter  and  calmer  was  her  rest  on  the  straw  in  a  prison  cell 
that  night  than  his. 

They  mitigated  the  sentence  because  she  was  a  woman,  but  many 
long  years  Liz  Byrnes  expiated  Dick  Beech's  crime  in  the  Nevada 
jail.  He  left  the  town.  They  said  he  prospered  well  in  'Frisco, 
while  she  worked  hard  and  endured  patiently  for  his  sake .  Surely  no 
human  love  could  be  greater  than  this,  for  she  bore  disgrace,  was 
willing  to  suffer  death,  while  he  lived  honored  in  the  world.  She  was 
so  young,  it  was  pitiful. 

After  her  term  was  served  she  went  back  to  her  old  cabin  on  the 
hill,  an  outcast,  an  object  of  scorn  to  all  people;  a  martyr,  a,  saint 
in  the  eyes  of  angels  above. 

She  waited  for  him,  hoping  that  he  would  come  back  to  her  pome 
day,  and  she  would  forgive. 

It  was  winter  time,  and  the  rain  descended  from  the  heavens  in 
solid  sheets.  The  wind  swept  around  the  mountain  peaks  like 
mighty  monsters,  seeking  to  wrest  them  from  their  foundation.  The 
pinea  mingled  their  voices,  sighing  and  moaning,  while  a  torrent 


120  uz. 

roared  down  the  ravine,  in  mad  frenzy,  dashing  over  rocks  and  leap- 
ing over  bowlders. 

JJiz  sat  with  hands  folded,  watching  the  storm;  but  she  was  not 
afraid,  though  the  wind  threatened  to  blow  down  the  old  shanty  at 
every  gust.  Through  the  storm  some  one  was  beating  his  way  to 
her  door,  and,  as  a  fierce  blast  blew  it  open,  it  blew  a  man  with  drip- 
ping clothing  into  the  light. 

"Tom,"  she  asked,  gently,  "what  do  you  want  here  ?" 

"Liz,"  he  said,  hesitatingly,  "won't  you  shake  hands  with  me ? 
I  know  all;  Dick  Beech  is  dyin'  down  at  the  tavern.  He's  told  us," 
he  said,  wiping  a  suspicious  moisture  from  his  eyes.  "You're  an 
angel,  Liz,  which  wimmin  folks  ain't  often;  but  if  ever  thar  was  one 
on  airth,  you're  that  one,  Liz  Byrenes.  He  wants  to  see  you  'fore 
he  pegs  out,  the  scoundrel." 

"Is  Dick  Beech  there  ?  "  she  asked  excitedly. 

"Yes;  he  came  back  a  day  or  two  ago.  I  never  seedsich  a  change; 
and  he  deserves  it." 

"You  shall  not  eay  anything  about  him,"  Liz  retorted,  angrily. 

"They  sed  how  be  was  doin'  well,"  Tom  said,  "but  it  seems  now 
he  wasn't.  It  was  well  in  whisky,  I  'spect.  He  got  shot  in  a  row 
at  Black's  saloon  to-night,  and  he  keeps  callin'  for  you." 

She  hastily  threw  an  old  shawl  around  her  shoulders,  and  fol- 
lowed Tom.  The  rain  and  wind  beat  in  their  faces,  but  they  kept 
steadily  on,  Tom  holding  a  Ian  tern  before  them,  which  illuminated 
the  wet  and  slippery  trail.  At  last  they  reached  the  saloon.  It 
seemed  hours  to  Liz,  who  threw  off  her  dripping  wrappings  and 
went  into  the  room  where  he  lay  slowly  dying.  Men  were  laughing, 
drinking,  betting  in  the  next  room,  one  life  was  very  little  to  them. 

"Liz,"  he  said,  feebly  rising  up  as  she  entered,  "I  knew  you 
would  come  to  me.  "Don't  look  at  me  so.  It  was  that  look  that 
maddened  me,  it  has  haunted  me  day  and  night,"  he  moaned  falling 
back  on  his  pillow. 

"Only  say  you  will  forgive  me.  I  have  told  them  all.  I  would 
scarcely  know  you,  you  are  so  changed.  May  I  kiss  you  once,  Liz? 
For  I  love  you,"  he  said,  looking  at  her  wistfully. 

She  clasped  bis  hand  in  here,  while  a  light,  bright  as  a  halo  round 
the  head  of  a  saint,  shone  in  her  face. 


LIZ.  121 

"Yes,  Dick,  I  forgive,  freely,  freely,  if  you  will  only  live.  I  don't 
care  for  these  years,  they  are  gone,  and  my  life  was  not  meant  to  be 
like  other  women. 

The  wind  swept  around  the    house  like   the  wail  of  a   lost    »  pirit, 
and  Dick  held  her  hand  in  his   and  smiled  peacefully,  for  he  was  too 
feeble  to  talk  any   more. 

As  morning  neared,  the  storm  died  slowly  away,  the  embers  faded 
into  ashes  in  the  fireplace,  and  Dick's  life  ebbed  quietly  away.  His 
soul  was  summoned  before  the  Higher  Tribunal.  Liz  sat  there  mo- 
tionless by  his  side,  through  the  long  day,  praying  in  her  heart  for 
death  to  be  merciful  unto  her. 

The  Judge  shook  hands  with  her;  the  people  crowded  around 
bringing  offerings.  They  tried  to  make  amends  for  their  wrongs  to 
her,  but  she  only  said  wearily: 

"It  is  too  late  now.  It  is  all  the  same  to  me.  When  you  could 
have  been  merciful  you  turned  away.  Now  it  is  all  over.  Justice 
can  never  make  amends  for  my  sufferings.1' 

And  then  she  said  softly  to  herself: 

"It  was  all  for   his  sake." 


MIRANDA   HIGGINS. 


lie  was  a  drummer;  a  moon-faced,  big-eyed,  round-cheeked,  inno- 
cent drummer.  He  had  been  in  California  but  a  short  time,  and  had 
been  forwarded  by  his  firm  to  secure  the  trade  of  the  then  booming 
town  of  Josie. 

He  drove  a  span  of  greys  attached  to  a  light  spring  wagon,  loaded 
clown  with  samples  of  dress  goods,  dry  goods  and  small  wares.  He 
was  innocent,  I  say,  because  this  was  his  first  experiment  in  that  line 
of  business,  and  his  saucer  eyes  had  not  yet  become  contracted  and 
steeled  by  unflinchingly  gazing  in  the  clear  depths  of  honest  pur- 
chasers; his  peach-blow  cheeks  were  not  yet  browned  by  the  sun  and 
conscientious  resistance  to  insinuating  bargain-drivers. 

He  sat  back  on  his  seat,  permitting  the  lines  to  lie  loosely  on  his 
knees,  while  he  rea,d  a  volume  of  Bret  Harte's  stories  of  California 
life. 

"  Well,  here  I  am  at  last,"  he  said  to  himself,  * 'among  the  very 
pcenes  he  pictures;  breathing  the  very  mountain  air  once  inhaled  by 
Tennesee's  partner;  rattling  over  the  very  road  that  may  have  been 
trodden  by  Jim  and  Kentuck.  How  strange  it  all  seems  !  To  think 
that  I,  Samuel  Kingston,  am  here  among  the  genuine  Californians, 
where  I  can  see  M'liss,  and  the  rest  of  his  heroines  and  heroes.  No- 
body ever  opened  up  the  pure,  untainted  streams  of  human  life  as  did 
Bret  Harte.  Simplicity,  honesty,  honor  and  classic  ignorance  com- 
bined with  rugged  beauty  and  unadorned  sweetness  must  be,  as  he 
represents  them,  found  in  their  purest  forms  among  the  denizens  of 
the  grand  forests,  and — ah — ah — gr-rand  canons.  I  am  wearied  of 
the  stilted  formalities  of  city  life;  I  am  tired  of  the  assuming  beauty 
of  civilized  females.  Sam,  my  bay — you  have  struck  it  !  If  you  can 
find  one  of  the  simple,  pure  children  of  nature,  with  a  generous  heart, 
a  self-sacrificing  nature,  and,  of  course,  of  the  female  sex,  marry 
her,  and  be  happy.  I'll  do  it !  I  will  search  for  one  of  the  untamed 
savages,  and  she  shall  share  my  lot  as  certainly  as  my  name  is  Sam- 


HIQGIN8.  123 

uel  Kingston.  How  we  will  astonish  the  natives  at  Sacramento  I 
Bret  Harte  was  right.  Here  is  the  place  to  find  the  feminine  soul 
untainted  and  pure  as  the  leaping  waters  of  the  mountains.  Get  up, 
you  lazy  brutes  !" 

Sam  jogged  along,  leaving  first  the  fig  and  nectarine,  then  the  oak 
trees  behind  him  as  he  climbed  higher  and  higher  toward  the  divide 
which  overlooked  Bobtail  Canon.  His  horses  squirmed  up  the 
dusty,  stony  grade,  puffing  and  blowing,  as  they  worked  from  side  to 
side  of  the  ever  ascending  gimlet .  Sam,  deeply  engaged  in  following 
the  equally  winding  careers  of  Bret  Harte's  characters,  looked  up 
only  now  and  then  and  bent  searching  glances  to  the  roadside.  His 
whole  being  was  on  the  alert  for  the  appearance  of  some  of  these 
peculiar  individuals. 

Bret  Harte's  work  was  his  guide-book;  it  was  his  Murray.  He 
was  fond  of  Dickens,  and  had  he  visited  London,  he  would  have 
taken  Pickwick  as  his  model  of  an  English  gentleman, 

Sam's  notions  of  Californians,  simon-pure  Californians,  were  not 
derived  from  California  or  Montgomery  street,  or  from  the  business 
men  of  Sacramento.  They  were  but  hangers-on,  but  excrescences. 
Genuine  Californians,  according  to  his  views,  as  derived  from  his 
constant  perusal  of  Bret  Harte,  were  to  be  found  only  among  the 
everlasting  mountains,  in  the  gulches,  canons,  and  among  the 
sluice  boxes  of  the  mines. 

Sam  reached  the  top  of  the  divide,  and,  as  his  greys  spread  them- 
selves loosely  in  the  harness,  swished  their  tails  and  tossed  their 
beads,  delightedly  at  the  prospect  of  the  downward  trot,  his  eyes 
caught  a  glimpse  of  the  gulch  below. 

There  they  are,  just  as  his  imagination  had  pictured  them  !  Ramb- 
ling, straggling  streets  tumbled  up,  jumbled  up,  rickety  houses. 
Windows  of  glass  and  wood  and  potato  sacks.  (Jhimneys  of  stone, 
mud-plastered  wood,  kerosene  cans  and  fire-proof,  but  rusty  and  con- 
tradictory,  stove  pipe. 

"Bobtail  Canon" — said  Sam  to  himself,  "Harte  never  wrote 
about  it  that  I  remember,  but  how  unique  it  looks,  how  breezy,  how 
picturesquely  suggestive,  the  name  !  What  legends  must  cling 
around  such  a  distinctively  characteristic  California  name  as  that." 

The  team  of  greys  drove  downward  and  around  until,  after  rattling 


124  MIRANDA    HIOCHNB. 

over  a  decidedly  nervous  bridge  which  crossed  the  creek,  they  trotted 
gaily  in  among  the  houses  of  Bobtail  Canon. 

A  sign  attracted  Sam's  attention.  "Miners'  Rocwt,"  it  said  in  big 
black  letters  on  a  sign-board  which  wearily  rested  one  end  upon  the 
ground  and  hung  convulsively  with  the  other  to  a  rusty  hook  on  the 
equally  wearied  porch  which  leaned  against  the  bosom  of  a  disgusted 
looking  tavern  that  stared  at  Sam  with  wide  open  doors  and  windows. 
Not  a  soul  was  to  be  seen,  The  place  was  as  silent  as  a  grave-yard 
at  full  moon. 

Sam,  somewhat  dazed,  got  out  of  his  wagon  and  pounded  vigor- 
ously upon  the  front  door,  which  stood  invitingly  open,  with  the  butt 
of  his  whip. 

"Hello  !  Hello  the  house  !"  he  bawled. 

A  cloud  of  dust  floated  through  the  corral  rapidly,  and  a  figure 
vaulted  with  a  handspring  over  the  fence. 

"Hello  y'eelf  an  whart's  the  matter  ?"  said  the  figure  as  it  came 
right  end  uppermost  in  front  of  Sam  in  the  shape  of  a  girl  about 
eighteen  years  old. 

She  was  tow- headed,  freckled-faced,  pug-nosed  and  blue-eyed. 
Her  feet  were  bare  as  well  as  a  lengthy  portion  of  limb  visible  above 
them,  bare  that  is  of  artificial  covering,  though  plentifully  frescoed 
with  dust .  She  wore  a  grimy  calico  dress  and  was  otherwise  un- 
adorned. 

"M'liss?"  said  Sam  slowly  but  insinuatingly,  looking  at  the  lady 
in  amazement. 

"Say  it  agin  an'  say  it  louder,  stranger,"  said  the  girl  placing  her 
hands  on  her  hips. 

"How  artistically  simple !"  muttered  Sam.  "Isn't  your  name 
M'liss?" 

"No — 'tain't  !  my  name's  Randy,  whart's  your'n  ?" 

"Mine?"  answered  Sam.  "O  mine  is  Sam  Kingston.  But  tell 
me,  isn't  this  a  hotel  ?" 

"Twar  onct,  but  tain't  now." 

"Can't  I  put  up  here  to-night  ?"  asked  Sam;  "I  have  come  a 
long  way  to-day." 

5?"  Reckon  so.     Whare  yer  doin'  up  hyer  anyhow  ?     Say  you  Long 
Jim  an  you  Snakey  Jake  c'ra  yer    an'  see  te   ther   horses.     Recken 


MLKANPA    JUGGINS.  125 

'*         -  X  .      • 

ye'll  hevter  put  up't  our  cabiu  if  yer  stay  hyer  all  night.    C'm  long." 

She  led  the  way  around  the  remains  of  the  old  tavern  to  a  cabin, 
rather  more  substantial  in  the  rear,  and  introduced  Sana  to  the  in- 
terior without  further  ado. 

The  furnishings  were  rough  but  neat  and  clean"  enough  and  Sam 
was  soon  in  the  wakeful  dreams  of  "Hartey"  romance. 

Here  was  everything  as  described.  He  rambled  around  through 
the  little  straggling  streets  and  made  mental  note.  Here  was  a  bar 
room,  the  bar  indented  with  a  multitude  of  arcs  of  circles  where 
whisky  Bill  and  Snorting  Jerry  had  slammed  their  glasses  down 
in  emphatic  argument,  and  there  in  the  ceiling  were  bullet  holes 
where  some  Black  Daisy  or  one-eyed  Tom  had  applauded  the 
emphasis. 

Kingston  was  in  ecstacy .  It  seemed  to  him  that  he  had  but  to 
touch  a  hidden  spring  somewhere,  and  the  slouch  hats,  long  boots, 
revolver  belts,  clinking  glasses  and  historic  dog  fights  and  human 
conflicts,  would  all  put  in  an  appearance  and  begin  their  operations. 
It  was  a  group  in  marble,  it  needed  but  life  to  make  it  a  romantic 
feast. 

"Anyhow,"  said  Sam,  "I  have  found  the  girl.  She  is  a  thorough- 
bred. Such  eyes,  such  freedom  from  conventionality,  I  never  saw. 
What  a  heroine  ehe  would  make  for  Harte.  I'll  capture  her 
if  I  can." 

He  labored  hard  for  the  three  days  he  stayed,  during  which  his 
firm  suffered  from  his  negligence,  and  the  siege  he  laid  to  her  heart 
was  something  tremendous. 

He  opened  treasured  samples  of  Smith,  Brown  &  Co.,  and  gave 
her  a  choice  of  knickknacks.  It  was  a  heavenly  joy  to  him  to  hear 
her  little  screams  of  delight  as  she  tried  on  the  buttoned  boots  and 
displayed  one  trim  booted  ankle  in  contrast  to  its  begrimmed 
comrade. 

"Keep  them  , Miranda/'  he  said  with  the  air  of  a  prince. 

"Shore  yer  ain't  jokin',  stranger?"  she  whispered  sliding  up  to 
his  side. 

"Now  could  I  joke  with  such  a  creature  of  nature  as  you  are?" 
said  Sam.     "But  you  must  call  me  Sammie." 
"Call  yer  Sammie?     Course  I'll  call  yer  anything  for  them  boots. 


126  MIRANDA   BIGGINS. 

Yer  a  enakin'  good  feller,"  she  whispered  again  as  she  threw  her 
brown  arms  around  Sam's  neck  and  implanted  a  resounding  kiss  up- 
on his  cheek,  much  like  in  sound  to  the  pull  of  a  horse's  hofffrom  an 
adobe  road. 

A  quiver  of  delighted  conquest  went  all  over  Sam.  He  drew  her 
frowsy  head  to  his  manly  bosom  and  said,  "Oh  Bandy,  did  you  ever 
love?" 

'No,"  whispered  she. 

'Don't  you  love  me  just  a  little?"  plaintively  whined  Sam. 

'Yer  bet,"  she  replied  anchoring  her  head  on  his  shoulder. 

'Will  you  be  mine?"  asked  Sam  trembling    with   apprehension. 

'Your'n?     Yer  mean  will  I  tie  to  you?" 

'Yes,"  said  Sam,  "marry  me," 

"Ya-a-as,"  answered  Mirande  dropping  her  plump  form  into 
Sam's  arms. 

"Your  father  will  not  object,  will  he?"  inquired  Sam. 

"My  ole  man?  Wai  now  yer  whispering.  Te!  he!  He'll  be 
something  doggoned  new  ef  he  does.  Count  me  in  as  your'n, 
Sammie." 

Samuel  Kingston,  Esq,  drummer,  drove  off  the  next  morning  to 
hasten  through  the  business  of  his  firm  at  Josie,  which  he  accom- 
plished in  three  or  four  days  and  returned  to  Bobtail  Canon. 

Agreeably  to  the  arrangements  privately  and  previously  made,  he 
took  Miranda  Higgins  and  drove  to  the  nearest  Justice  of  the  Peace 
at  the  county  seafj  and  was  duly  made  a  happy  man  in  the  possession 
of  the  untamed  savage.  He  persisted  in  insanely  calling  her  M'liep, 
much  to  the  disgust  of  Miranda  Kingston. 

Sam  was  on  the  constant  outlook  for  the  outburst,  which  he  ex- 
pected, of  some  remarkable  self-sacrificing  deed  on  Miranda's  part , 
and  even  meditated  deliberately  upon  getting  himself  into  some  serious 
physical  danger  just  for  the  sake  of  arousing  the  mountain  spunk  of 
his  heroine,  so  that  he  might  relate  the  wonderful  prowess  of  this 
piece  of  unpolished  nature  to  his  friends  at  Sacramento. 

The  opportunity  came,  but  not  exactly  as  laid  down  in  Sara's  pro- 
gramme. 

They  had  started  on  the  grade  to  the  valley .  Miranda  was  profusely 
decorated  in  brilliant  calico  and  gay  streaming  ribbons,  and  perctud 


MIRANDA    HIGGIN8.  127 

her  buttoned  shoes  upon  the  dash  of  the  wagon,  where  they  were  ever 
present  for  her  constant  admiration.  Sam  complacently  smiled  and 
delighted  in  the  happiness  of  having  given  this  unsophisticated  lady 
an  opportunity  to  breathe  the  first  breath  of  worldly  fashion. 

They  were  winding  around  up  the  grade  when  suddenly  the  sound 
of  clattering  hoofs  and  rattling  wheels  was  borne  on  the  breeze  down 
the  mountain  to  them.  Sam  looked  up  quickly,  and  up  the  grade  two 
turns  of  the  road  from  him  he  caught  a  momentary  glimpse  of  a  span 
of  wild  eyed  horses  and  a  buggy  tearing  down  in  a  cloud  of  dust.  In 
a  minute  they  would  be  at  the  next  turn  and  be  upon  him.  The 
grade  was  wide  enough  for  one  wagon  only.  On  one  side  a  deep  and 
precipitous  wall  fell  away  for  two  hundred  feet;  on  the  other  a  sheer 
precipice  rose  fifty  more.  There  was  but  one  crevice  in  the  upper 
wall  where  a  foothold  could  be  had. 

Miranda  clinched  her  teeth,  turned  pale,  and  screaming,  "a  run- 
away !"  climbed  down  from  the  wagon. 

"Ah  !"  thought  Sam,  in  the  flash  of  a  moment,  "she  is  a  heroine; 
she  goes  to  throw  herself  upon  the  brutes  and  stay  then*  course.  '* 

Miranda  did  nothing  of  the  sort.  She  made  2:15  time  for  that 
crevice  in  the  upper  wall,  and  perching  herself  safely  there,  shouted 
as  the  cloud  of  dujSt  drew  nearer: 

' 'Shoot !  Yer  blamed  fool,  why  don't  yer  shoot?" 

"Sure  enough,"  thought  Sam,  and  as  the  wild  team  came  round 
the  bend  he  blazed  away  with  his  revolver.  One  horce  fell,  and  in 
the  twinkling  of  an  eye  a  $400  span  and  a  buggy  were  crashing  dowa 
the  precipice  below. 

Miranda  climbed  down. 

"Nothing  like  such  presence  of  mind,  M'liss,  Miranda,  I  mean," 
he  remarked,  as  ehe  seated  herself  in  the  wagon  once  more. 

"Ain't  nothin*  like  cold  lead  an'  heaven'  a  man  with  yer  at  sich 
times,"  replied  Miranda,  with  a  grin. 

They  reached  Sacramento,  and  Sam,  to  give  his  wife  an  eye-opener 
on  the  wide,  bad  world,  away  from  the  pure  atmosphere  of  the  moun- 
tains, gave  a  reception  to  his  friends  at  the  Golden  Eagle.  They 
came  in  claw  hammers  and  white  kids.  Drummers  every  one  of 
them. 

"Miranda  is  stunnning,"  thought  Sam. 


128  MIRANDA     HIGGIN8. 

She  wore  a  blue  silk,  and  twined  orange  blossoms 
ornamented  her  head.  The  wild,  sweet  picturesqwness  of  bare  and 
frescoed  feet  and  ankles  was  gone;  the  untamed  expression  of  the 
wide-open  eyes  was  lost  under  the  banged,  flaming  hair;  the  freckles, 
fashionable  as  they  were,  glared  angrily  in  -  contrast  to  the  blue 
dress. 

Sam  swept  her  regally  into  the  center  of  the  room  and  introduced 
her: 

"This  is  my  mountain  heroine,  boys.  She  is  a  specimen  of  pure 
and  undefiled  nature.  She's  a  mountain  gem." 

"Kingston,"  whispered  a  brazen-faced  drummer  to  him  on  the  sly, 
"you've  done  it  now,  you  know.  ' 

"I  know  it,"  answered  Sam,  "I  always  intended  to  get  onex>f  her 
stamp.  I  am  sick  of  cultured  loveliness,  and  I  found  her,  a  wild 
rose,  blossoming  amid  the  rubbish  of  one  of  the  most  romantic  mining 
camps  you  ever  saw." 

'     That  night,  when  the  guests  had  all  retired,    and    while    Miranda 
was  unbuttoning  her  boots,  she  glanced  up  at  Sara  and  said: 

"Say,  ain't  it  about  time  to  let  up  on  this  hyer  mountain  gem 
business?" 

"Why,  what  do  you  mean,  Raiidy  ?"  asked  Sam,  aghast.  I  am 
proud  of  your  mountain  origin;  you  are  like  a  fresh  breeze  on  the 
sandy  desert." 

"I'm  glad  yer  think  so,"  muttered  Bandy,  with  a  mouthful  of 
pins,  "only  'taint  quite  the  kerrect 'thing." 

"Oh,  that's  all  right,"  replied  Kingston.  "The  people  here  ap- 
preciate that  sort  of  a  thing.  You'll  be  quite  a  heroine. 

"'S'nice  fer  yer  to  say  so,  Sammie, 'cause  yer  see  I'm  among  stran- 
gers like.  DadV  I  only  kem  out  from  Missouri,  from  the  old 
Massysip,  three  weeks  ago. 

Tableau. 

WILLIAM  ATTWELL  CHENEY. 


THE  MARQUIS  OF  AGUAYO. 


[The  point  of  Jaw  involved  in  this  story  needs  explanation.  In  our  country  a  ques- 
tion of  fact,  such  as  whether  a  man  committed  such  and  such  a  crime,  is  left  to  the  jury. 
In  Mexico,  there  is  no  jury,  and  the  Judges  decide  both  the  law  and  the  fact.  However, 
they  require  two  witnesses  to  the  overt  act.  In  this  respect  they  follow  the  Mosaic 
law,  which  is  retained  in  that  part  of  the  Constitution  of  the  United  States  referring  to 
treason,  where  a  man  can  not  be  convicted  of  treason  without  the  testimony  of  two  wit- 
nesses, or  "confession  in  open  eourt."  Our  readers  will  appreciate  the  force  and  mate- 
riality of  these  distinctions  in  the  story  we  give  below.] 


Broad  were  the  lands  of  the  Marquis  of  Aguayo;  far  as  the  eye 
could  see  his  acres  stretched;  up  to  the  high  ridge  of  the  Sierras, 
where  straight  against  the  sky  a  fringe  of  fearless  pines  were  growing, 
unconscious  that,  if  the  Marquis  willed,  they  too  might  be  bought 
and  sold.  From  Mazapil  to  Patos,  from  Parras  to  Monteclova,  and 
even  further,  for  all  we  know,  did  the  Marquis  of  Aguayo  *s  lands 
extend. 

If  the  traveler  had  inquired,  "To  whom  does  this  or  that  field  be- 
long?" as  of  the  Marquis  of  Carabas  of  old,  for  miles  and  miles,  the 
answer  would  still  be,  "To  the  Marquis  of  Aguayo  1" 

The  Marquis,  to  be  sure,  had  tenants;  but  if  they  held  the  land, 
the  land  held  them;  and  none  would  be  so  bold  as  to  affirm  that  the 
Afarqwis  was  not  their  master  as  well  as  their  landlord.  In  spite  of 
his  enormous  wealth,  however,  and  almost  kingly  prerogatives,  the 
Marquis  bad  little  of  the  luxuries  the  modern  rich  man  could  com- 
mand. He  had  more  land  than  money,  and  more  of  money  than  of 
the  things  which  it  could  buy.  Yet  if  he  had  less  of  the  comforts  of 
life,  he  bad  at  least  the  proud  satisfaction  of  knowing  that  whatever 
he  did  own  he  owned  absolutely,  without  let  or  hindrance  from  any 
of  his  neighbors.  He  was  the  best  swordsman  in  Mexico,  and  when 
he  bestrode  a  hor*e,  his  strength  in  riding,  it  was  said,  was  eo  great 
that  he  could  make  a  horse  squeal  by  the  mere  pressure  of  his  knees. 
He  lived  in  a  rude,  middle-age  sort  of  a  way,  moving  to  and  fro 
among  his  numerous  haciendas,  his  body- secant  sleeping  like  a 
hound  before  his  door. 

On  the  16th  of  April,   in  the  year  1737,  the   Marquis   of  Aguayo 


130  THE  MARQUIS  OF  AGAAYO. 

was  holding  court  (the  expression  is  iiot  too  inaccurate)  at  his  hacien- 
da  near  Mazapil.  The  occasion  was  one  of  high  festivity.  The 
glasses  clinked  merrily  around  the  board,  sparkling  with  the  wine  of 
Parrae.  Twelve  young  Mexican  girle,  in  white  chemise,  gay  petti- 
coat, and  blue  and  white  ribosa,  were  moving  noiselessly  about  the 
table,  waiting  on  the  numerous  wants  of  the  guests.  The  menu  was 
the  usual  oue  on  such  occasions — Twtillas,  Olla  Podrida,  Guisada, 
a  dieh  of  olives,  eggs  and  oil,  a  particularly  fine  roast  kid,  and  at 
the  finish  the  inevitable  Frijoles.  In  the  center  of  the  table  was  a 
huge  glass  of  water  from  which  all  drank. 

The  marquis  bad  summoned  all  his  friends,  or  rather  all  his  satel- 
lites, for  he  had  no  friends.  He  made  it  a  rale,  he  said,  to  avoid 
these  entanglements,  and  he  bad  easily  succeeded  in  carrying  the 
rule  out.  For  the  Marquis  was  rather  feared  than  loved,  and  it  was 
whispered  in  certain  circles  that,  though  he  could  control  almost  all 
else,  his  wife's  affections  were  somewhat  errant.  Base  rumor  had  it 
that  a  certain  major-domo,  now  at  Patos,  had  estranged  the  beauti- 
ful Donna  Ignacia  from  her  rightful  lord  and  master.  But  whether 
this  was  true  or  not,  the  Marquis  gave  no  sign  of  ether  outward  ro 
in  ward  suspicion.  He  sipped  his  coffee  and  smoked  his  cigarette 
import  urbably,  with  a  calmness  which  at  least  betokened  self-control 
if  not  self-possession. 

It  was  noticed  that  on  that  evening  he  was  particulaily  affable  to 
his  guests.  He  had  even  joked  and  smiled  primly  at  his  own  hu- 
mor. Indeed  the  lion  of  Patos,  as  he  was  familial ly  called,  had  so 
relaxed  his  usual  severity  that  one  of  the  company,  Don  Jose  Ybarra, 
the  young  superintendent  of  the  minfs  at  Mazapil,  was  bold  enough 
to  hazard  a  remark . 

" Where  is  the  Donna  Ignacia  this  evening,  if  one  might  ai?k?" 

Now  Don  Jose  Ybarra  had  no  cause  to  love  the  Marquis.  It  was 
he  who  had  sought  the  fair  Ignacia's  hand  hi  marriage  before  her  richer 
suitor  came  along.  It  was  said — what  will  they  not  say? — that  the 
beautiful  Ignacia  was  not  averse  to  the  young  engineer,  and  that 
family  influence,  powerful  in  all  Spanish  countries,  had  been  exerted 
in  hie  rival's  behalf.  Be  this  as  it  may,  every  one  in  Mazapil  knew 
that  the  young  engineer  had  taken  his  die  appointment  much  to  heart. 
He  had  become  dissipated  and  impudent,  and  the  noble  and  open 


THE  MARQUIS  OF  AQUAYO.  131 

countenance  which  God  had  given  him,  had  been  disfigured  with  the 
marks  of  sin's  defilement.  Many  thought,  too,  that  he  was  lacking 
in  proper  spirit  in  breaking  bread  with  his  arch  enemy,  the  Marquis . 
But  others,  for  the  must  part  women,  in  whose  heart  the  superintend- 
ent had  still  a  soft  place,  argued  that  they  were  friends  now,  and 
that  altered  matters. 

There  was  this  much  to  confirm  the  latter  view;  the  Marquis  would 
stand  from  his  young  acquaintance  what  he  would  never  have  allowed 
from  any  other;  who  else  would  have  dared  at  such  a  time  to  have 
asked : 

"  Where  is  the  Donna  Ignaeia?" 

The  Marquis  gave  a  puff  to  his  cigarette. 

"I  believe  she  is  at  Patos,"  he  said  carelessly. 

So  reckless  had  Don  Jose  become  with  troubles  (for  besides  his 
tendency  to  drink,  he  had  begun  to  gamble,  and  was  heavily  in  debt 
both  to  his  conscience  and  the  world)  it  was  quite  in  the  cards  that 
he  should  have  gone  on  and  inquired  the  whereabouts  of  the  Major 
domo,  who  was  also  conspicuously  absent. 

But  the  Marquis  gave  him  a  quiet  but  terrible  look,  which  seemed 
to  say,  "Go  on  if  you  dare." 

In  spite  ot  himself,  the  young  man's  courage  o<  zed  out;  and 
though  he  despised  himself  for  the  weakness,  he  felt  quite  relieved 
when  the  Marquis  indulgently  changed  the  subject. 

After  the  supper  was  cleared  away  the  cards  were  brought  out, 
and  the  gambling  began  to  run  high.  It  was  quite  the  usual  thing 
at  Patos  to  welcome  in  the  morning  light  at  play.  And  the  present 
occasion  promised  to  be  no  exception.  But  the  Marquis  held  himself 
aloof  from  this  amusement .  He  seemed  above  all  petty  passions; 
an 3,  trusting  to  his  guests'  absorption,  was  in  the  habit  of  withdraw- 
ing well  before  the  midnight  hour.  This  evening  he  retired  even 
earlier  than  usual.  But  what  was  that  to  the  gamblers?  They  cared 
only  for  what  he  had  to  give;  feared  him  for  what  he  might  take 
away;  bated  them  for  what  he  had  already  deprived  them  of.  The 
Marquis,  too,  had  the  heaviest  purse  and  the  coolest  nerves.  It  had 
long  teen  a  standing  rule  at  both  Mazapil  and  Patos  that  none  but 
guests  should  play.  On  one  occasion,  distinct  in  the  memory  of  some 


132  THE  MARQUI8~OF  AGUAYO. 

at  least,  the  Marquis  had  "takenja  hand,"k  but  no  one  [wished  the 
experiment  to  be  repeated. 

The  din  grew  louder  ^and  louder  and  the  evening  longer,  until 
finally  each  player  lost  either  his  hopes  or  his  money;  and,  overcome 
with  the  fumes  of  wine,  and  oppresed  with  that  sickening  sense  of 
self-contempt,  which  is*the  a?h  of  passion,  betook  himself  to  bed. 

The  whole  house  was  wrapt  in  quiet. 

In  the  morning  the  sun  rose  as  usual  and  proceeded  on  his  west- 
ward journey.  Not  long  after  the  menials  of  the  hicienda  also  arose 
and  began  their  daily  avocations.  Most  of  the  guests  at  Mazapil 
were  in  the  habit  of  taking  their  coffee  in  bed  and  then  rising  for  the 
almuerzo  or  late  breakfast.  On  this  occasion  they  were  later  in  get- 
ting up  than  usual;  but  then,  on  the  other  hand,  they  bad  largely 
discounted  the  evening  before.  One  by  one  they  began  to  collect  on 
the  pavement,  in  the  shade  of  the  building  at  the  entrance  to  the  patio 
whence  they  commanded  an  extended  view  of  the  treeless  country 
and  of  the  road  to  Patos,  by  way  of  the  Punta  Santa  Helena . 

They  were  in  no  too  good  humor.  But  one  man  had  won  (and 
even  he,  as  is  the  custom  in  such  a  case,  was  out  of  pocket),  Don 
Manuel  Sanchez,  the  rich  banker  of  Mexico.  Stingy,  close  and  un- 
scrupulous, he  turned  everything  to  profit,  even  gambling. 

"So  you  lost  like  the  rest  of  us,"  said  the  irritable  Delgado,  who 
could  not  bear  to  lose  or  to  keep  silent. 

"Jesus  Maria,  did  1  not  have  200  pesos,  and  what  have  I  now?" 
said  Manuel,  with  injuied  innocence. 

"Carramba,"  said  Delgado,  "your  pockets  are  well  filled;  I'll 
dare  swear." 

Nothing  makes  gentlemen  so  impolite  as  gambling.  Self-control, 
under  loss,  is  not,  as  is  generally  supposed,  the  characteristic  of  a 
gentleman  at  play.  This  sort  of  stoicism  is  rather  the  characteristic 
of  a  professional  sharper  who  makes  gambling  a  business.  Conse- 
quently, this  fine  morning  when  all  nature  was  rejoicing,  our  gentle- 
men of  Mazapil  were  "out  of  humor,  even  rude,  if  Spaniards  are  ever 
eo,  and  were  secretly  cursing  each  other  in  their  hearts. 

Perhaps,  also,  their  irritation  was  increased  by  an  untoward  event. 
Strangely  enough,  the  Marquis  was  late,  and  had  not  yet  made  his 
appearance;  in  consequence  breakfast  was  waiting. 


THE  MARQUIS  OF  AGUAYO.  133 

"Mine  host  has  been  under  the  weather  of  late,"  said  Don  Manuel 
wishing  to  appease  the  company,  by  introducing  a  congenial  topic  of 
conversation. 

"Family  cares/'  said  the  superintendent  with  almost  a  sneer. 

"And  the  Donna  Ignacia  not  present  to  console  him — too  bad," 
said  Delgado. 

"Too  bad!  Too  bad !"  echoed  this  arrant  pack  of  cowards,  who 
dared  not,  even  in  the  absence  of  the  subject  of  their  hates,  speak  out 
too  plainly  the  envy  in  their  hearts. 

In  this  instance  their  caution  was  not  amiss;  for,  faultlessly  dressed 
in  full  white  shirt,  his  long  pantaloons  cut  open  at  the  side,  and  a 
broad  sombrero  on  his  head,  cigarette  in  hand ,  cool  and  imperturbable 
as  he  had  left  them  the  evening  before,  the  Marquis  had  just  shown 
himself  at  the  door. 

"Good  morning,  gentlemen.  I  hope  you  passed  the  night  agree- 
ably," said  the  Marquis,  courteously,  holding  out  his  cigarette  in  the 
two  fingers  of  his  left  hand,  and  calmly  blowing  out  into  the  air  a 
perfect  ring. 

As  he  did  BO,  however,  the  careful  observer  might  have  noticed 
that  he  looked  toward  the  west,  where  a  cloud  of  dust  was  rising  on 
the  highway. 

The  cloud  drew  nearer,  until  finally,  a  horseman  could  be  per- 
ceived urging  his  steed  with  his  huge  spurs,  as  if  eome  life  were  at 
stake.  It  was  Miguel,  of  the  first  estancia,  on  the  road  to  Patos. 

"Senor!  Senor!"  cried  that  worthy  man,  fairly  throwing  himself  at 
his  master's  feet: 

"Lopez,  the  vaquero,  has  been  found  dead  before  my  door,  stabbed 
in  the  back!" 

The  Marquis  of  Aguayo  kept  on  smoking. 

The  company,  transfixed  with  terror,  looked'  alternately  from  the 
messenger  of  death  to  the  owner  of  three  provinces,  whose  slight  fig- 
ure, as  if  of  bronze,  stood  out  so  grimly  against  the  sky. 

"What  did  you  do  with  the  body?"  said  the  Marquis,  quietly. 

"I  laid  it  out  in  my  room,  Senor." 

"You  did  well,"  said  the  Marquis;  and  then  he  added;  "You  may 
go." 


134  •  THE  MAKQUIS  OF  AGUAYO. 

The  company  shivered  with  unknown  dread,  but  the  Marquis  atill 
looked  toward  the  western  sky. 

Soon  again  another  cloud  of  dust  could  be  seen,  and  in  time,  another 
messenger  appeared,  also  in  haste,  and  bearing  a  message  similar  to 
the  one  which  had  preceded  him.  This  time  it  was  another  poor 
vaquero  who  had  been  murdered.  He  had  been  stabbed,  in  the 
same  mysterious  manner,  at  a  station  further  on  towards  Patos. 

A  third  messenger  came,  and  then  a  fourth,  each  bearing  tidings 
of  a  fresh  murder  still  further  on  towards  Patos. 

At  last  came  the  end. 

The  unhappy  wight  who  brought  the  news  was  too  frightened  to 
talk.  The  substance  he  stammered  out  was  this : 

A  vaguero,  the  Marquis'  major-domo,  the  Marquis*  wife  and  bis 
four  children  bad  all  been  murdered  at  Patos. 

When  the  dreadful  intelligence  was  announced  to  him,  the  Mar- 
quis only  said. 

"I  am  indeed  unlucky  to-day." 

And  he  went  on  emoking,  stopping  even  to  brush  off  the  ashes 
that  had  fallen  on  his  spotless  shirt. 

******  * 

For  some  time  after  these  occurrences  all  Mazapil  was  thrilled 
with  horror.  It  was  an  open  secret  that  the  Marquis  had  something 
to  do  with  the  murders;  but  how  were  they  accomplished  ?  Whose 
was  the  hand  that,  in  a  single  night  had,  over  a  distance  of  one  hun- 
dred ^miles,  sent  no  less  than  ten  souls  into  eternity?  Was  it  not  at- 
tested by  all  those  present  at  the  dinner  given  by  the  Marquis  on 
the  fatal  night,  even  by  Don  Jose  Ybarra,  that  his  Excellency  had 
retired  early,  and  that  the  next  morning  he  appeared  only  a  little 
later  than  usual.  The  knowing  ones  remarked  even  this  delay  was 
the  least  suspicious  circumstance  of  all.  A  man  who  had  been  on  a 
death  hunt  the  night  before,  would  be  particularly  careful  not  to  ex. 
cite  any  suspicion  by  departing  from  his  usual  habits  in  the  morning. 

But  these  doubts  were  all  laid  to  rest  by  no  less  a  personage  than 
the  Marquis  himself.  The  horrid  rumor  began  to  spread  about  Maz- 
apil, and  from  thence  to  Mexico,  that  the  Marquis  not  only  was  the 
author  of  the  crimes  in  question,  but  that  he  was  openly  boasting  of 
it.  In  his  cups  he  would,  with  fiendish  pleasure,  to  one  companion 


THE   MARQUIS    OF   ACHJAYO.  135 

unfold  the  manner  of  the  killing.  This  confession  was  made  invari- 
ably to  one  witness,  and  always  in  the  privacy  of  his  room. 

The  substance  of  that  confession  was  this: 

When  the  Marquis  retired  on  the  evening  in  question  his  plans 
were  all  arranged.  He  had  ordered  four  relays  to  to  be  ready  on  the 
road  from  Mazipil  to  Patos.  By  changing  horses  he  counted  upon 
making  the  whole  distance  of  fifty  miles  in  four  hours.  His  calcu- 
lations were  not  far  astray.  Arriving  at  Patos  in  the  dead  of  night, 
he  found  his  worst  suspicions  confirmed , 

Before  two  in  the  morning  his  wife,  his  major-domo  and  his  four 
children  were  all  cold  in  death. 

He  had  left  his  vaquero  some  distance  out  of  the  town. 

"I  wished  to  surprise  the  Senora,"  he  had  eaid  grimly  to  the  un- 
fortnnate  man. 

On  the  way  back  to  Mazapil  he  rode  just  behind  the  vaquero, 
and  before  arriving  at  the  next  station  stabbed  him  in  thfi  back. 
There  was  thus  one  witness  less  to  his  crime. 

Arriving  at  the  next  estancia,  he  found  another  horse  and  vaquero 
waiting  for  him.  Behind  this  vaquero  he  also  rode,  and  just  before 
the  next  estancia  he  also  stabbed  him. 

At  the  third  estancia  another  victim  was  ready,  as  well  as  at  the 
fourth.  There  were  no  longer  any  witnesses  to  his  crime.  By  eev- 
€n  in  the  morning  the  Marquis  was  in  his  bed.  His  ride  of  death 
was  over. 

His  plans  had  been  calculated  with  most  fiendish  premeditation, 
and  had  met  with  the  most  complete  success.  And  he  took  partic- 
ular delight  in  detailing  them  to  the  one  witness  who  cared  to  listen. 

When  asked  why  he  had  murdered  his  children,  the  Marquis  had 
only  answered: 

"I  exterminate  the  whole  brood.  When  an  Aguayo  doubts  at  all, 
he  doubtt?  everything.  ' 

In  a  month's  time,  no  less  than  ten  men  in  Mazapil  had  been  told 
the  story;  and  yet  on  no  occasion  could  the  Marquis  be  induced  to 
tell  it  but  to  one  witness  at  a  time. 

Don  Jose  Ybarra  was  not  yet  among  the  number. 

Down  into  the  lowest  steps  of  degradation  had  he  sunk.  He  had 
lost  his  position  in  the  mines.  His  hand,  once  steady,  now  trembled 


186  THE  MARQUIS  OF  AGUAYO. 

with  the  excess  of  dissipation;  his  bloodshot  eyes  glared  out  their 
disappointed  hate  on  the  very  children  he  passed  along  the  street. 
When  he  heard  the  fearful  story  that  was  freezing  to  the  marrow  of 
all  the  people  of  Mazapil,  his  heart  leapt  within  him  at  the  thought 
of  reveuge — revenge,  the  last  passion  of  a  wasted  life:  revenge,  the 
sweet  solace  of  a  disappointed  life. 

"I  will  bring  this  vulture  to  justice,"  thought  he.  "Yes,  if  there 
is  law  in  Mexico/' 

Then  he  looked  back  on  his  lost  existence;  he  remembered  the  fair 
face  of  the  young  girl  that  he  had  so  hoped  to  make  his  bride;  he 
thought  of  all  the  misery  the  Marquis  had  brought  on  them  both, 
and  with  clenched  fist  he  leapt  into  the  air. 

"Curse  him!  Curse  him!" 

That  day  Don  Jose  Ybarra  was  one  of  those  who  knew.  Merrily, 
cheerily,  as  if  it  were  some  sailor's  yarn,  the  Marquis  had  reeled  off 
to  him  the  confession  of  his  crime.  Ybarra  fled  from  the  mocking 
laugh;  fled  from  the  polluted  board  which  had  witnessed  his  enemy's 
triumph  and  his  own  shame. 

But  his  despondency  was  but  for  the  moment,  A  thought  came 
to  him  which  cheered  his  soul. 

"The  snake  will  not  confess  but  to  one  at  the  time.  I  will  catch 
him  in  his  own  trap;  he  shall  see  but  one — there  will  be  two." 

Don  Jose  Ybarra  rubbed  his  hands  in  glee.  And  then  he  stopped. 
Who  would  be  the  other  ?  An  accomplice  in  such  an  undertaking 
would  not  be  easy  to  secure.  In  order  to  have  the  plan  succeed,  he 
must  manage  to  entice  the  Lion  of  Patos  from  his  lair.  Who  should 
be  stool  pigeon  ?  The  drunken  priest  of  Mazapil  came  to  his  mind. 

"The  very  one,"  said  Ybarra  to  himeelf.  "I  will  go  to  him  at 
once." 

When  Father  Gomez  was,  by  delicate  approaches,  informed  of 
Ybarra's  intention,  he  did  not  take  kindly  to  the  plan.  The  luxuri- 
ous priest  saw  no  pleasant  prospect  before  him. 

"Besides,  was  not  the  Marquis  a  friend  ?"  he  said. 

"Is  he  not  a  murderer?"  said  Ybnrra,  with  quiet  intensity. 

"I'll  not  do  it,"  the  priest  answered,  finally. 


THE  MABQUIS  OF  AOUAYO.  137 

"You  will  do  it,"  hissed  Ybarra,  "or  I  will  write  to  Mexico  and 
inform  the  Archbishop  how  you  cure  souls  at  Mazapil." 

Such  is  the  force  of  persuasion,  that  Don  Jose,  partly  by  threats 
and  partly  by  holding  out  the  hope  of  future  advancement,  succeeded 
in  making  the  priest  an  accomplice  to  his  crime — if,  indeed,  bunging 
a  man  to  justice  can  be  truly  said  to  be  a  crime. 

In  accordance  with  instructions,  the  priest  called  on  the  Marquis 
and  invited  him  to  dine  at  his  apartments  in  the  town. 

The  Marquis  accepted  without  demur. 

The  priest  reported  the  success  of  his  interview  to  his  principal, 
and  the  two  men  took  their  precautions.  A  table,  with  an  unusually 
long  cloth  was  prepared,  and  a  little  before  the  appointed  time  Don 
Jose  Ybarra  secreted  himself  in  its  folds. 

The  Marquis  came  as  he  promised.  There  was  a  cold  glitter  in 
his  eye.  "Does  he  suspect  anything?"  thought  the  priest.  "No  it 
is  impossible.  How  can  he  since  the  secret  was  buried  between  us 
two?"  So  stifling  his  fear  when  the  guest  was  in  his  cups,  he  led 
the  conversation,  with  great  tact,  around  to  the  desired  point.  The 
Maiquis  looked  at  him  with  surprise. 

"Who  do  I  think  murdered  my  wife  and  children,  and  my  major- 
domo,  and  my  four  vaqueros?" 

The  priest's  fingers  grew  cold  with  fear. 

"I  will  tell  you  who  murdered  them.  I  did!"  hissed  the  Lord  of 
Patos,  as  he  leaned  over  the  table  with  a  drunken  leer. 

"Oh,  my  son,  my  son,  how  could  you  murder  your  poor  wife?" 

"Because  she  deceived  me." 

"And  your  children?" 

"Because  they  were  not  mine." 

"Are  you  not  "afraid  to  confess  this  to  me?"  said  the  priectgrowing 
bolder. 

"No,  why  should  I  be?" 

"Are  you  not  afraid  that  I  might  hand  you  up  to  justice?" 

The  Marquis  laughed. 

"What,  are  you  alone?     The  word  of  one  witness  is  not  sufficient." 

With  a  quick  movement  the  priest  disclosed  Ybarra  concealed  un- 
der the  table. 

"Now,  Sir  Marquis,  there  are  two  witneesep." 


138 


THE  MARQUIS  OF  AGUAYO. 


A  flash  and  a  report;  'twas  soon  over.     Don  Jose  Ybarra  lay  dead 
at  the  priest's  feet  with  a  hole  in  his  head. 

"And  now,"  said  the  Marquis  of  Aguayo,  "there  is  only  one." 


A  SENSATION  IN  THE  ORANGE  GROVES, 

There  had  long  been  a  sensation  in  the  orange  groves  of  Los  An- 
geles county,  on  account  of  the  presence  there  of  the  notorious  Tiburcio 
Vasquez.  On  the  16th  day  of  May,  1874,  at  4:30  p.  M.  as  the 
Clerk  of  the  City  Council  of  Los  Angeles  was  about  to  read  the  last 
communication  to  that  body,  an  unusual  stir  outside  attracted  quick 
attention,  and  in  a  moment  more  City  Fathers,  City  Clerk,  City 
Surveyor,  City  Reporters,  and  everybody  else  in  the  room,  were 
making  for  the  front  door.  Instinctively  I  supposed  Vasquez  had 
something  to  do  with  the  hegira,  and  I  was  right.  Vasquez  was  ly- 
ing pale  and  bloody  in  a  light  wagon,  in  front  of  the  entrance  to  the 
city  jail.  A  surging  crowd  was  gathering  around.  Two  men  who 
were  taken  in  his  company,  at  the  time  of  the  capture,  were  hurried 
into  jail  and  locked  up.  In  a  moment  after,  Vasquez,  himself,  was 
lifted  from  the  wagon  and  was  borne  into  the  city  prison.  Dr.  Wise 
soon  after  presented  himself;  and,  assisted  by  several  other  medical 
gentlemen  of  the  city,  rendered  the  wounded  robber  such  surgical 
services  as  he  required.  The  result  of  the  examination  showed  a 
buckshot  in  his  left  arm,  one  in  the  left  leg,  one  in  the  left  side  of  his 
head,  one  in  front  of  the  pectoral  region,  passing  out  under  the  left 
arm,  and  one  in  the  right  arm.  The  balls  were  extracted,  the  wounds 
pronounced  not  dangerous,  and  opinion  expressed  that  he  would  be 
well  in  a  few  days. 

During  the  time  referred  to,  Mr.  Charles  Miles,  who  had  beeu 
robbed  by  Vasquez  near  San  Gabriel,  a  few  weeks  before,  entered  the 
room.  He  was  at  once  recognized  by  the  wounded  man — in  fact,  the 
recognition  was  mutual.  Mr.  Hartley,  the  Chief  of  Police  of  the 
City  of  Los  Angeles,  had  taken  Mr.  Miles'  watch  into  hie  keeping. 
It  was  returned  to  the  proper  owner.  Mr.  M/s  chain  was  missing, 
however;  Vaequez  said  nothing  about  it  at  the  time;  but,  after  Dr. 
Wise  and  his  ;  ssociates  had  dressed  his  wounds,  he  requested  Dr. 
Wise  to  take  bis  portemonuaie  from  his  pocket.  It  was  done,  and 


140  A  SENSATION  IN  THE  OBANQB  GBOVES. 

Yasquez  opened  it,  and  handed  the  missing  chain  to  Dr.  W.,  and 
requested  him  to  return  it  to  its  rightful  owner.  He  remarked,  "It 
belongs  to  him,  now,"  emphasizing  the  last  word,  aw  much  as  to  say, 
"he  might  have  whistled  for  it  if  they  had  not  caught  me."  While 
his  wounds  were  being  dressed,  Mr.  B.  F.  Hartley,  Chief  of  Police, 
one  of  his  captora,  asked  him  why  he  (Vasquez)  had  asked  him  (Hart- 
ley) what  his  name  was.  Quoth  Vasquez,  "listed  es  un  hombre 
valiente  lo  raismo  que  yo."  (You  are  a  brave  man  like  myself.)  He 
bore  the  probing  and  opening  of  his  wounds  without  a  murmur.  In 
personal  appearance,  this  robber  chief  was  anything  but  remarkable. 
Take  away  the  expression  of  his  eyes,  furtive,  snaky,  and  cunning, 
and  he  would  have  passed  unnoticed  in  a  crowd.  Not  more  than 
five  feet  seven  inches  in  height,  and  of  very  spare  build,  he  looked 
little  like  a  man  who  could  create  a  reign  of  terror.  His  forehead 
was  low  and  slightly  retreating  to  where  it  was  joined  by  a  thick 
mass  of  raven  black  and  very  coarse  hair;  his  mustache  was  by  no 
means  luxuriant,  his  chin  whiskers  passably  full;  and  his  sunken 
cheeks  were  only  lightly  sprinkled  with  beard;  his  lips  thin  and 
bloodless;  his  teeth  white,  even  and  firm;  his  left  eye  slightly  sunken. 
He  had  small  and  elegantly  shaped  feet.  Perhaps  130  pounds  was 
as  much  as  he  weighed.  His  light  build  made  it  an  easy  task  for 
the  horse  that  bore  him  to  perform  forced  marches.  The  reign  of 
terror  which  he  had  been  answerable  for  was  at  an  end.  No  attempt 
was  made  to  interfere  with  the  law  by  the  crowd  which  surrounded 
the  jail.  A  feeling  more  of  relief  than  of  revenge  or  exultation  seemed 
to  be  uppermost  in  the  minds  of  all.  The  history  of  the  capture  of 
Vaequez  forms  one  of  the  most  interesting  chapters  that  has  ever 
been  written.  The  captured  robber  had  defied  pursuit,-  mocked  at 
strategy,  and  eluded  for  months  the  skill  of  the  bravest  and  most 
celebrated  detectives  on  the  coast.  Once  afoot  or  on  horseback,  with 
three  hours  the  start  of  his  pursuers,  Cuban  bloodhounds  would  not 
have  compassed  bis  capture.  A  sudden,  well-arranged  surprise  was 
the  only  chance  to  secure  him.  It  had  been  effected,  and  in  the 
manner  hereinafter  related . 

After  the  futile  pursuit  of  the  robber  up  the  Tejunga  Pass,  a  short 
time  before,  Mr.  Wm.  Rowland,  Sheriff  of  Los  Angeles  county,  came 
to  the  conclusion  that  any  further  prosecution  of  the  quest  in  that 


A    SENSATION   IN    THE    ORANGE    GROVES.  1 

manner  and  direction  was  a  waste  of  time,  energy  and  money.  His 
subordinates  were  ordered  to  desist,  and  many  and  loud  were  the 
complaints  lodged  against  him  for  inaction  and  inefficiency. 

Mr.  Rowland,  however,  kept  on  in  the  even  tenor  of  his  way; 
and,  availing  himself  of  every  possible  source  of  information,  at 
length  became  satisfied  that  the  long-sought-for  prize  was  within  his 
grasp,  and  he  quietly  arranged  for  a  capture.  On  Wednesday  night, 
May  15tb,  the  evening  before  the  capture,  he  received  positive  in- 
formation of  the  whereabouts  of  Tiburcio  Vasquez. 

The  pursuers  left  Los  Angeles  at  1:30,  Thursday  morning.  About 
4A.M.,  they  arrived  at  the  bee  ranch  of  Major  Mitchell,  one  of  the 
party.  There  they  took  breakfast,  and  held  a  council  of  war.  The 
ranch  is  up  a  small  canon,  off  the  usual  lines  of  travel,  visited  occa- 
sionally by  neighboring  ranchmen  for  wood.  After  consultation, 
Messrs.  Albert  Johnston,  Mitchell,  and  Bryant  left  the  party  and 
followed  a  mountain  road  about  one  mile  and  a  half,  until  they  came 
to  a  point  opposite  Greek  George's  ranch.  Turning  square  north 
they  climed  to  a  point  where,  with  a  field  glass,  they  could  obtain  an 
unobstructed  view  of  the  covert.  A  heavy  fog  rendered  satisfactory 
observations  impracticable  for  hours.  When  it  lifted  they  saw  enough 
to  convince  them  that  their  game  was  at  the  very  point  designated.  A 
horse  answering  the  description  of  that  ridden  by  the  outlaw  was 
picketed  out  as  above  stated.  Twice  they  saw  a  man,  answering  the 
description  of  Vasquez,  leading  him  to  the  monte,  and  returning,  pick- 
et him  out  as  before.  Another  man  on  horseback  went  in  pursuit  of 
a  white  horee  which  tallied  with  the  description  given  of  a  horse  be- 
longing to  his  gang.  Various  plans  for  the  capture  of  Vaequez  were 
discussed  by  the  trio,  but  finally  it  was  decided  that  Mr.  Johnson 
should  return  to  the  bee  ranch  and  marshal  his  forces,  while  Mitchell 
and  Smith  went  in  pursuit  of  the  horseman  referred  to,  they  believing 
him  to  be  C haves,  the  Lieutenant  of  Vasquez. 

Arrived  there,  unexpectedly,  and  it  almost  seems  providentially 
sent,  allies  presented  themselves.  A  wagon  driven  by  a  Californian, 
and  in  which  "there  was  another  man  (also  a  native),  was  driven  up, 
from  the  direction  of  Greek  George's.  It  was  a  box  wagon.  It  was 
not  long  before  the  plan  of  capture  was  decided  upon.  Six  of  the 
party  remained .  The  extra  man  with  the  wagon  made  seven.  Mr. 


42  A    SENSATION   IN   THE   ORANGE    GROVES. 

Hartley,  who  spoke  Spanish  fluently,  was  instructed  to  inform  the 
driver  that  he  was  to  turn  his  horses'  heads,  allow  all  eix  of  the  party 
and  his  extra  man  to  lie  down  in  the  wagon  bed,  and  then  drive 
back  to  Greek  George's,  and  as  close  to  the  house  as  possible;  that  if  he 
gave  a  sign  or  made  an  alarm,  his  life  would  pay  the  forfeit.  In  due 
time  the  house  was  reached.  In  a  moment  the  men  were  out  of  the 
wagon  and  on  their  feet  with  shot-guns  and  rifles  cocked  and  ready 
for  what  might  offer.  Mr.  Hartley  and  Mr.  Beers  went  to  the  west 
side  of  the  house,  the  other  four  to  the  southern,  passing  round  the 
eastern  end.  The  foremost  of  the  latter  had  hardly  reached  the  door 
opening  into  the  dining-room,  when  a  woman  opened  it  partly.  See- 
ing the  armed  "quartette"  approaching,  she  gave  an  exclamatfon  of 
fright,  and  attempted  to  close  it.  The  party  burst  in,  Mr.  Harris 
leading  the  way,  and  seeing  the  retreating  form  of  the  prize  they 
sought  leaving  the  table  and  plunging  through  the  door  leading  into 
the  kitchen. 

Harris  was  close  upon  his  heels,  and  Vasquez,  with  the  agility  of  a 
mountain  cat,  had  jumped  through  the  narrow  window,  or  rather 
opening  which  admitted  the  light,  when  Harris  fired  at  the  vanishing 
form  with  his  Henry  rifle,  exclaming,  ' 'There  he  goes  through  the 
window!"  The  party  left  the  house  as  precipitatedly  as  they  entered 
it.  Vazquez  stood  for  a  second  of  time  irresolute.  Whether  to  seek 
cover  in  the  monte  or  rush  for  his  horse,  stemed  the  all  important 
question.  He  eeemed  to  decide  for  the  horse — doubtless  he  would 
have  given  ten  kingdoms  if  be  had  had  them,  to  be  astride  of  him — 
and  started,  when  Mr.  Harris  fired;  turning,  he  sought  another  di- 
rection, when  one  after  another,  shot  after  shot,  showed  him  the  utter 
hopelessness  of  escape.  He  had  already  been  wounded,  just  how 
severely  1  have  already  told.  He  had  fallen,  but  recovered  himself; 
blood  was  spouting  from  his  shoulder  and  streaming  from  other 
wounds.  He  threw  up  his  hands,  approached  the  party,  and  said, 
with  a  cold,  passionate  smile  wreathing  bis  thin  lips,  "Boys,  you 
have  done  well;  I  have  been  a  fool;  but  it  is  all  my  own  fault."  He 
was  taken  to  the  court-yard  on  the  southern  side  of  the  house,  and 
laid  upon  an  extemporized  pallet.  Not  a  murmur,  scarce  a  contortion 
of  the  visage,  bespoke  either  pain,  remorse,  or  any  other  emotion  of 
the  mind  or  soul.  Mr.  Beers  said  to  me  on  the  evening  of  the  cap- 


A    SENSATION   IN    THE    ORANGE    GROVES.  143 

ture:  "While  looking  for  bis  wounds,  I  placed  my  handover  his 
heart,  and  found  its  pulsations  gave  no  signs  of  excitement.  His  eye 
was  bright,  and  there  was  a  pleaeant  smile  on  his  face,  and  no  tremor 
in  his  voice.  He  was  polite  and  thankful  for  every  attention.  Al- 
though he  thought  and  said  that  he  was  about  to  die — 'Gone  up,'  as 
he  expressed  it — his  expression  of  countenance  was  one  of  admiration 
of  our  determined  attack  and  our  goodluck." 

The  house  was  entered,  and  a  young  man  was  captured  in  the 
north  room  before  described.  This  was  the  arsenal  of  the  robber 
gang.  Three  Henry  rifles  and  one  Spencer,  all  of  the  latest  patterns 
and  finest  workmanship,  besides  other  arms  were  found  there  and 
taken  possession  of.  Major  Mitchell  and  Mr.  Smith  overhauled  the 
party  they  went  in  pursuit  of,  and  brought  him  back.  I  have  stated 
that  it  was  well  that  Mr.  Rowland  did  not  start  out  with  the  party. 
Greek  George,  whose  real  name  is  George  Allen,  was  designated  as 
the  party  who  was  harboring  Vasquez.  Vasquez  was  found  there, 
that  is  certain.  Allen  was  in  town  Wednesday  night,  and  while  he 
supposed  he  was  watching  Rowland's  movements,  he  was  being 
watched  with  a  degree  of  wide-awakefulness  he  could  hardly  conceive 
of.  J£Le  was  solicitously  attended  in  his  peregrinations  throughout 
the  city  all  that  day.  Had  he  attempted  to  revisit  his  surburban 
home  before  the  consummation  of  Sheriff  Rowland's  plans,  he  would 
have  learned  the  meaning  of  a  writ  of  ne  exeat  which  would  unques- 
tionably have  been  extemporized  for  the  occasion. 

As  it  was,  when  his  distinguished  sometime  guest  had  been,  by 
the  physicians  in  attendance,  prepared  to  receive  visitors,  Mr.  Allen 
was  taken  into  his  presence  by  Sheriff  Rowland.  He  was  so  much 
affected  by  the  sight  that  he  forgot  to  express  his  sympathy.  Had 
Mr.  Rowland  not  been  seen  by  Mr.  Allen  Wednesday,  the  latter 
would  probably  have  remembered  something  whi  h  required  his 
presence  at  the  ranch.  Too  much  praise  can  never  be  awarded  to 
Sheriff  Rowland  for  the  quiet  but  effective  manner  in  which  he  car- 
ried out  his  well-conceived  plans.  It  would  simply  be  invidious  to 
attempt  to  particularize  any  member  of  the  capturing  party.  All 
that  I  was  able  to  learn  upon  the  subject,  from  any  and  every  source, 
went  to  show  that  each  and  every  man  acted  with  consummate  cour- 
age, coolness  and  discretion.  To  all  intents  and  purposes,  the  ap- 


144  A    SENSATION   IN   THE    ORANGE    GROVES. 

proach  to  the  house  where  the  capture  was  effected  was  a  deliberate 
approach  to  a  masked  battery.  That  Vasquez  was  there,  was  a 
matter  which  admitted  of  no  doubt.  How  many  of  his  fellow  des- 
peradoes were  with  him,  no  man  of  the  party  could  know.  How 
well  he  was  prepared  to  "welcome  them  with  bloody  hands  to  hos- 
pitable graves,"  nobody  could  doubt;  but,  determined  to  capture  him, 
if  possible,  they  "went  for  him,"  and  they  got  him. 

His  coolness  in  the  hour  of  capture,  the  fortitude  and  the  uncom- 
plaining stoicism  with  which  he  bore  his  wounds,  all  went  to  show 
that,  whatever  opinion  as  to  his  bravery  may  have  become  current 
with  the  public,  he  was  a  man  who  would  have  sold  his  life  dearly 
if  he  had  had  a  ghost  of  a  show.  I  verily  believe  if  he  had  had  a 
knife  or  a  pistol  on  his  person  he  would  have  sought  and  found  death 
rather  than  capture,  fto  posse  of  armed  men  could  have  approached 
the  well  chosen  fastness  which  he  had  selected.  Strategy  and  a  for- 
tunate concurrence  of  circumstances  placed  him  in  the  power  of  the 
law. 

While  being  carried  into  town  he  exchanged  notes  with  Major 
Mitchell  relative  to  the  Tejunga  Pass  pursuit.  He  told  the  Major 
that  twice  during  the  pursuit  he  was  near  enough  to  kill  him  and  his 
party,  if  he  had  desired  so  to  do  and  convinced  Major  Mitchell  of  the 
truth  of  his  assertion.  Vasquez  protested  that  he  had  never  killed  a 
man;  that,  the  murders  at  Tres  Pinos  were  committed  before  his  ar- 
rival; but  he  admitted  that  he  led  the  party  who  committed  the  out- 
rages away  from  that  point.  After  his  capture,  he  inquired  who  was 
the  leader  of  the  party,  and,  upon  being  told  that  Mr.  Albert  John- 
ston was,  he  delivered  to  him  his  memorandum  book,  and  com- 
menced to  make  a  statement  to  him,  not  knowing  at  the  time  but 
that  his  wounds  were  mortal. 

His  first  declaration  related  to  his  two  children;  when,  the  prepar- 
ations for  the  march  into  the  city  being  completed,  the  record  was 
abruptly  brought  to  a  close.  He  showed  Mr.  Johnston  the  photo- 
graphs of  the  children,  and  enclosed  in  the  same  envelope  with  them 
was  a  wavy  tress  of  black  and  silky  hair,  boun3  in  a  blue  ribbon. 
This  he  requested  Mr.  Johnston  to  preserve  carefully,  and  return  to 
him  when  he  should  require  or  demand  it.  What  secret  heart  his- 
tory was  bound  up  with  that  mute  memorial  of  days  when  perhaps 


A    SENSATION    IN    THE    CHANGE    PROVES.  145 

the  outlaw  had  his  dream  of  home,  and  all  that  makes  life  beautiful, 
no  one  can  tell. 

At  a  late  hour  I  visited  him  in  prison.  Lying  upon  his  pallet,  to  all 
human  appearances  a  doomed  man,  a  price  set  upon  his  head,  an 
outlaw  and  an  outcast,  he  received  me  and  a  number  of  other 
visitors  with  an  ease  and  grace  and  elegance  which  would  have  done 
no  discredit  to  any  gentleman  in  the  laud,  reclining  upon  his  fauteil 
in  bis  dressing-room.  After  answering  quietly  and  politely  a  num- 
ber of  questions,  he  requested  those  present  to  retire,  as  he  had 
something  to  communicate  to  the  sheriff,  relative  to  certain  stolen 
property.  His  memorandum  book,  among  many  other  things,  con- 
tained a  great  many  extracts,  clipped  from  the  Star,  La  Cronica, 
and  other  papers,  containing  accounts  of  his  various  exploits.  They 
went  to  show  conclusively  that  he  had  been  furnished  regularly  by 
confederates  with  everythiag  that  could  interest  him  or  keep  him  in- 
formed ot  the  measures  set  on  foot  to  effect  his  capture. 

On  a  small  scrap  of  paper,  dated  April  3d,  was  a  memorandum  in 
the  Spanish  language,  in  which  the  name  of  Repetto  occurred. 
Whether  it  was  a  reminder  of  his  intended  visit  to  that  gentleman,  or 
a  credit  for  the  amount  of  the  enforced  loan  he  exacted  from  him,  I 
do  not  know.  As  soon  as  Vasqirez  was  safely  lodged  in  jail,  all  par- 
ties agreed  that  Sheriff  Rowland  and  the  actual  captors  of  the  bandit, 
the  cool-headed  and  intrepid  Albert  Johnston,  Under-Sheriff;  and 
his  braye,  energetic,  and  fearless  associates,  officers  Hartley,  Harris, 
and  Bryant,  Major  Mitchell,  and  Messrs.  Rogers,  Smith,  and  Beers, 
were  entitled  to  great  credit.  They  had  been  unceasing  in  thefr 
efforts  to  effect  the  capture  of  Vasquez  from  the  time  of  the  .Repetto 
outrage,  and  the  result  is  told  as  above. 

William  Rowland,  Sheriff  of  Los  Angeles  county,  is  a  native  of 
the  county;  was  about  thirty-three  years  of  age,  and  was  serving  his 
second  term.  Albert  Johnston,  Under  Sheriff,  is  a  New  Yorker  by 
birth,  a  brother  of  Geo.  A  Johnston,  of  San  Diego,  and  had  been  a 
resident  of  Los  Angeles  for  about  five  years,  having  held  the  office 
of  Under  Sheriff  since  Mr.  Rowland's  election.  He  came  to  this 
State  when  a  mere  youth,  and  went  back  to  the  East  and  remained 
several  years,  but, "like  all  good  Californians,  returned.  He  was 
of  about  the  same  age  as  his  principal.  Officer  Harris  was  thirty-two 


146  A    SENSATION    IN    THE    OBANGE    GROVES. 

years  old;  was  well-known  in  the  city,  where  he  had  lived  for  six 
years,  and  had  been  on  the  police  force  four  years.  He  had  detec- 
tive qualities  second  to  no  man  in  the  State;  was  brave,  cool  and  en- 
ergetic, and  just  the  man  to  have  associated  in  such  a  hazardous 
undertaking.  Officer  Hartley  was  a  brave  fellow,  about  thirty-seven 
years  old,  and  a  model  member  of  the  police  force,  upon  which  he 
bad  served  efficiently  and  faithfully  for  two  years.  He  had  resided  in 
Los  Angeles  for  five  years.  Constable  Bryant  was  also  one  of  the  best 
officers  Los  Angeles  ever  had.  He,  too,  was  a  brave  and  efficient 
officer,  about  thirty-five  years  of  age.  Major  Mitchell,  soldier,  law- 
yer, miner,  apiarist  and  journalist,  was  a  young  man  of  talent  and 
education.  With  what  valor  and  intrepidity  he  followed  the  flag  of 
the  Southern  Confederacy  may  be  seen  in  his  persistent  and  un- 
rivalled pursuit  of  the  robber  chief,  from  the  Repetto  event  until  the 
achievement  related.  Mr.  W.  E.  Rogers  was  a  young  man  of 
thirty-two  years  of  age,  twenty-four  of  which  he  had  spent  in  San 
Francisco.  He  had  been  associated  with  the  Sheriti's  party  from 
the  start,  and  was  as  brave  as  he  was  genteel  and  unostentatious. 
Mr.  Smith  was,  I  believe,  a  farmer,  and  resided  outside  of  the  city. 
When  Mr,  Smith  went  to  Greek  George's  house  a  few  days  before, 
to  inquire  if  he  wanted  any  barley  cut,  the  latter  not  in  the  least 
suspected  that  the  would-be  hay-maker  was  taking  a  survey  of  the 
premises  for  Mr.  Rowland,  so  that,  when  the  time  arrived  for  the 
attack,  it  could  be  made  without  confusion  and  without  loss  of  life, 
if  possible,  to  the  besieging  party.  Mr.  Beers,  the  correspondent  of 
the  Chronicle,  was  as  gallant  as  his  fellows,  and  marched  up  to  the 
scene  of  attack  with  rifle  in  hand ,  prepared  for  any  emergency. 

The  next  day  I  interviewed  Vasquez.  He  seemed  but  little  the 
worse  for  his  wounds.  Sheriff  Rowland  bad  provided  him  with  a 
comfor'able  spring  mattress,  and  the  dinner  which  was  brought  to 
him  during  my  stay  in  his  cell,  or  rather  room,  was  good  enough  for 
anybody.  He  laughed  and  talked  as  gaily  and  unconstrainedly  as  if 
he  were  in  his  parlor  instead  of  in  the  clutches  of  the  violated  law. 
In  reply  to  my  questions,  he  gave  the  following  aocount  of  himself, 
substantially: 

"I  was  born  in  Monterey  county,  California,  at  the^town  of  Mon- 
terey, August  llth,  1835.  My  parents  are  both  dead."  I  have  three 


A    SENSATION   IN   THE   ORANGE   GROVES.  147 

brothers  and  two  sisters.  Two  of  my  brothers  reside  in  Monterey 
county:  one  unmarried  and  one  married;  the  other  resides  in  Los 
Angeles  county;  he  is  married.  My  sisters  are  both  married;  one  of 
them  lives  at  San  Juan  Baptista,  Monterey  county,  the  other  at  the 
New  Idria  quicksilver  mines.  I  was  never  married,  but  I  have  one 
child  in  this  county  a  year  old.  I  can  read  and  write,  having  at- 
tended school  in  Monterey.  My  parents  were  people  in  ordinarily 
good  circumstances,  owning  a  small  tract  of  land,  and  always  had 
enough  for  their  wants.  My  career  grew  out  of  the  circumstances  by 
which  I  was  surrounded.  As  I  grew  up  to  manhood,  I  was  in  the 
habit  of  attending  balls  and  parties  given  by  the  native  Californians, 
into  which  the  Americans,  then  beginning  to  become  numerous,  would 
force  themselves  and  shove  the  native-born  men  aside,  monopolizing 
the  dance  and  the  women.  This  was  about  1852.  A  spirit  of  hatred 
and  revenge  took  possession  of  me.  I  had  numerous  fights  in  defense 
of  what  I  believed  to  be  my  rights  and  those  of  my  countrymen. 
The  officers  were  continually  in  pursuit  of  me.  I  believed  we  were 
unjustly  and  wrongfully  deprived  of  the  social  rights  that  belonged 
to  us.  So  perpetually  was  I  involved  in  these  difficulties,  that  I  at 
length  determined  to  leave  the  thickly  settled  portions  of  the  country, 
an3  did  so.  I  gathered  together  a  small  band  of  cattle,  and  went 
into  Mendocino  county,  back  of  Ukiab,  and  beyond  Falls  Valley. 
Even  here  I  was  not  permitted  to  remain  in  peace.  The  officers  of 
the  law  sought  me  out  in  that  remote  region,  and  strove  to  drag  me 
before  the  courts.  I  always  resisted  arrest.  I  went  to  my  mother 
and  told  her  I  intended  to  commence  a  different  life.  I  asked  for 
and  obtained  her  blessing,  and  at  once  commenced  the  career  of  a 
robber.  My  first  exploit  consisted  in  robbing  some  peddlers  of  money 
and  clothes  in  Monterey  county.  My  next  was  the  capture  and  rob- 
bery of  a  stage  coach  in  the  same  county.  I  had  confederates  with 
me  from  the  first,  and  was  always  recognized  as  leader.  Robbery 
after  robbery  followed  each  other  as  rapidly  as  circumstances  allowed 
until,  in  1857  or  "58, 1  was  arreeted  in  Los  Angeles  for  horse  steal- 
ing, convicted  of  grand  larceny,  sentenced  to  the  penitentiary,  and 
was  taken  to  San  Quentin,  and  remained  there  until  my  term  of  im- 
prisonment, exp;red  in  1863.  Up  to  the  time  of  my  conviction  and 
imprisonment,  I  had  robbed  stage  coaches,  wagons,  houses,  etc.,  in- 


148  A    SENSATION    IN    THE    ORANGE  GROVES. 

discriminately,  carrying  on  my  operations  for   the  most  part  ia  day- 
light, sometimes,  however,  visiting  houses  after  dark. 

"After  my  discharge  from  San  Quentin,  I  returned  to  the  house  of 
my  parents,  and  endeavored  to  lead  a  peaceable  and  honest  life.  I 
was,  however,  soon  accused  of  being  a  confederate  of  Procopio  and 
one  Soto,  both  noted  bandits,  the  latter  of  whom  was  afterwards 
killed  by  Sheriff  Harry  Morse,  of  Alameda  county .  I  was  again 
forced  to  become  a  fugitive  from  the  law  officers;  and,  driven  to  des- 
peration, left  home  and  family,  and  commenced  robbing  whenever  op- 
portunity offered.  I  made  but  little  money  by  my  exploits.  I  always 
managed  to  avoid  arrest.  I  believe  I  owe  my  frequent  escapes  solely 
to  my  courage  (mi  valor).  I  was  always  ready  to  fight  whenever 
opportunity  offered,  but  always  endeavored  to  avoid  bloodshed. 

"I  know  of  nothing  worthy  of  note  until  the  Tres  Pinos  affair  oc~ 
curred.  The  true  story  of  that  transaction  is  as  follows:  I,  together 
with  four  other  men,  including  Chaves,  my  lieutenant, and  one  Leiva, 
(who  is  now  in  jail  at  S*n  Joee,  awaiting  an  opportunity  to  testify, 
he  having  turned  State's  evidence),  camped  within  a  short  distance  of 
Tres  Pinos.  I  sent  three  of  the  party,  Leiva  included,  to  that  point, 
making  Leiva  captain.  I  instructed  them  to  take  a  drink,  examine 
the  locality,  acquaint  themselves  with  the  number  of  men  around, 
and  wait  until  I  came.  I  told  them  not  to  use  any  violence,  as  when 
I  arrived  I  would  be  the  judge,and  if  anybody  had  to  be  shot  I  would 
do  the  shooting.  When  I  arrived  there  with  Chaves,  however,  I 
found  three  men  dead,  and  was  told  that  two  of  them  were  killed  by 
Leiva  and  one  by  anotberofthe  party  named  Romano;  the  rest  of 
the  men  in  the  place  were  all  tied.  I  told  Leiva  and  his  companions 
that  they  had  acted  contrary  to  my  orders,  that  I  did  not  wish  to  re- 
main there  long.  Leiva  and  his  men  had  not  secured  money  enough 
for  my  purpose  and  I  told  a  woman,  the  wife  of  one  of  the  men  who 
was  tied,  that  I  would  kill  him  if  she  did  not  procure  funds.  She 
did  so  and  we  gathered  up  what  goods  and  clothing  and  provisions 
we  needed,  and  started  for  Elizabeth  Lake,  Los  Angeles  county.  On 
the  way  there  Leiva  became  jealous  of  me,  and  at  once  rebelled  and 
swore  revenge.  He  left  his  wife  at  Heffner's  place  on  Elizabeth  Lake 
and  started  to  Los  Angeles  to  give  himself  up,  as  well  as  to  deliver 
me  to  the  authorities,  if  he  could  do  so.  Sheriff  Rowland,  however, 


A    SENSATION    IN    THE    ORANGE    GROVES.  149 

was  on  my  track,  and  in  company  with  Sheriff  Adams,  of  Santa 
Clara  county,  and  a  posse  of  men,  endeavored  to  capture  Chaves  and 
myself  at  Rock  Creek.  We  fired  at  the  party  and  could  have  killed 
them  if  we  had  wished  so  to  do.  We  effected  our  escape,  and  arri- 
ving at  Heffner's,  I  took  Leiva's  wife  behind  me  on  my  horse,  and 
started  back  in  the  direction  I  knew  Rowlands  and  Adams  and  their 
party  would  be  coming,  knowing  that  I  could  hear  them  approaching 
on  their  horses.  I  did  so,  and  as  they  drew  near  I  turned  aside 
from  the  road.  The  Sheriffs  and  posse  passed  on,  and  I  took  Leiva's 
wife  to  a  certain  point,  which  I  do  not  care  to  name,  and  left  her  in 
the  hills  at  a  sheep  ranch,  while  I  went  out  and  made  a  raid  on  Fire- 
baugh's  Ferry,  on  the  San  Joaquin  river,  for  money  to  send  her 
back  to  her  parents'  house.  I  did  so,  and  have  not  seen  her  since.  I 
provided  for  all  her  wants  while  she  was  with  me.  I  tied  ten  men 
and  a  Chinaman  up  at  Firebaugh's  Ferry  in  the  raid  above  referred 
to." 

[Here  I  digress  a  moment,  to  tell  what  befell  Sheriffs  Rowland  and 
Adams  and  posse.  They  went  straight  to  Heffner's,  found  their 
game  had  broken  cover.  They  found  Vasquez'  camp, captured  thirty- 
six  horses  and  the  greater  part  of  the  goods,  clothing  and  provisions, 
taken  from  the  Tres  Pinos,  and  then  divided,  Sheriff  Rowland  return- 
ing to  Los  Angeles  with  the  horses,  all  of  which  had  been  returned 
to  their  owners  except  two.  While  at  the  camp  Leiva  came  up  and 
was  arrested  by  Sheriff  Rowland,  on  suspicion;  was  by  him  turned 
over  to  Mr.  Wassou,  the  Sheriff  of  Monterey  county.  Sheriff  Adams 
and  his  party  kept  up  an  nnsuccessful  search  for  the  bandit  for  sev- 
eral days,  and  finally  abandoned  it.  I  now  resume  Vasquez'  narra- 
tive where  it  was  Jeft  off.] 

"  After  sending  Leiva's  wife  home,  I  went  to  King's  River,  in 
Tulare  county,  where,  with  a  party  of  eight  men  besides  myself,  I 
captured  and  tied  up  thirty -five  men.  There  were  two  stores  and  a 
hotel  in  this  place.  I  had  time  to  plunder  only  one  of  the  stores,  as 
the  citizens  aroused  themselves  and  began  to  show  fight.  The  num- 
bers were  unequal  and  I  retired.  I  got  about  eight  hundred  dollars 
and  considerable  jewelry  by  this  raid.  I  went  from  there  to  a  small 
settlement,  known  as  Panama,  on  Kern  river,  where  myself  and 
party  had  a  carouse  of  three  days,  dancing,  love-making,  etc.  El 


150  A   SENSATION    IN    THE    ORANGE    GROVES. 

Capitan  Vasquez  was  quite  a  favorite  with  the  senoritas.  It  was 
well  known  to  the  peopte  of  Bakersfield,  which  is  only  two  or  three 
miles  from  Panama,  that  I  was  there,  arid  arrangements  were  made 
for  my  capture;  but  the  attempt  was  not  made  until  I  had  been  gone 
twenty-four  hours.  Then  they  came  and  searched  the  house  in  which 
1  was  supposed  to  be  concealed.  When  I  left  Panama,  I  started  for 
the  Sweet-water  mountains,  and  skirted  their  base,  never  traveling 
along  the  road,  but  keeping  along  in  the  direction  of  Lone  Pine.  I 
returned  by  the  way  of  Coyote  Holes,  where  the  robbery  of  the  stage 
took  place.  Here  C haves  and  myself  captured  the  diligencia  and 
sixteen  men.  Chaves  held  his  gun  over  them  while  I  took  their 
money  and  jewelry.  We  got,  about  $200  and  some  pistols,  and  jew- 
elry, watches,  etc.;  also  a  pocket-book,  belonging  to  Mr.  James 
Craig,  containing  about  $10, 000  worth  of  mining  stock,  which  I  threw 
away.  One  man  was  disposed  to  show  fight,  and  to  preserve  order 
I  shot  him  in  the  leg,  and  made  him  sit  down.  I  got  six  horses  from 
the  stage  company,  two  from  the  station.  I  drove  four  of  them  off 
in  one  direction  and  went  myself  in  another,  in  order  to  elude  pursuit. 
I  wandered  around  in  the  mountains  after  that  until  the  time  of  the 
Repetto  robbery. 

"The  day  before  that  occurrence,  I  camped  at  the  Pietra  Gordo. 
at  the  head  or  Arroyo  Seco.  I  had  selected  Repetto  as  a  good  sub- 
ject. In  pursuance  of  the  plan  I  had  adopted,  I  went  to  a  eheep 
herder  employed  on  the  place,  and  asked  him  if  he  had  seen  a  brown 
horse  which  I  had  lost;  inquired  if  Repetto  was  at  home,  took  a  took 
at  the  surroundings,  and  told  the  man  I  had  to  go  to  the  Old  Mis- 
sion oa  some  important  business,  that  if  he  would  catch  my  horse  I 
would  give  him  $10  or  $15.  I  then  returned  by  a  roundabout  way 
to  my  companions  on  the  Arroyo  Seco.  As  soon  as  it  was  dark  I 
returned  with  my  men  to  the  neighborhood  of  Repetto's  and  camped 
within  a  few  rods  of  the  house.  The  next  morning  about  breakfast 
time  we  wrapped  our  guns  in  our  blankets,  retaining  only  our  pistols, 
and  I  went  toward  the  house,  where  I  met  the  sheep  herder  and 
commenced  talking  about  business.  Asked  him  if  Repetto  wanted 
herders  or  shearers,  how  many  sheep  could  he  sheir  in  a  day,  etc.; 
speaking  iu  a  loud  tone,  in  order  to  throw  him  off  his  guard.  I  had  left 
my  men  behind  a  small  fence,  and  being  told  that  he  was  at  home,  I 


,  A    SEN8ATION    IN    THE   ORANGE    GROVES.  151 

entered  the  house  to  see  if  I  could  bring  the  patron  to  terms  without 
killing  him.  I  found  him  at  home,  and  told  him  I  was  an  expert 
sheep  shearer,  and  asked  him  if  he  wished  to  employ  any  shearers; 
tolp  him  that  my  friends,  the  gentlemen  who  were  waiting  out  by 
the  fence,  were  also  good  sheerers,  and  wanted  work.  All  were  in- 
vited in,  and  as  they  entered  surrounded  Repetto.  I  then  told  him 
I  wanted  money.  At  this  he  commenced  hollering,  when  I  had  him 
securely  tied,  and  told  him  to  give  me  what  money  he  had  in  the 
house.  He  handed  me  eighty  dollars.  I  told  him  that  that  would 
•do;  that  I  knew  all  about  his  affairs;  that  he  had  sold  nearly  $10,000 
worth  of  sheep  lately,  and  that  he  must  have  plenty  of  money  buried 
about  the  place  somewhere.  Repetto  then  protested  that  he  had 
paid  out  nearly  all  the  money  he  had  received  in  the  purchase  of  land 
that  he  had  receipts  to  show  for  it,  etc.  I  told  him  that  I  could  read 
and  write  and  understood  accounts;  that  if  his  books  and  receipts, 
and  they  balanced  according  to  his  statements,  I  would  excuse  him. 
He  produced  the  books,  and  after  examining  them  carefully,  I  became 
convinced  that  he  had  told  me  very  nearly  the  truth.  I  then  express- 
ed my  regrets  for  the  trouble  I  had  put  him  to,  and  offered  to  com- 
promise. I  told  him  that  I  was  in  need  of  money,  and  that  if  he  would, 
accomodote  me  with  a  small  sum  I  would  repay  him  in  thirty  days 
with  interest  at  1^  per  cent,  per  month.  He  kindly  consented  to  do 
so,  and  sent  a  messenger  to  a  bank  in  Los  Angeles  for  the  money, 
being  first  warned  that  in  the  event  of  treachery  or  bretayal  his  life 
would  pay  the  forfeit.  The  messenger  returned,  not  without  excit- 
ing the  suspicions  of  the  authorities,  who,  as  is  well  kuown,  endeav- 
ored at  that  time  to.effect  my  capture,  but  failed.  But  you  know  all 
about  the  Arroyo  Seco  affair." 

I  do,  and  present  it  as  follows:  Mr.  Repetto,  fearing  that  his  life 
would  be  taken,  despatched  a  boy  to  Los  Angeles  with  a  check  for 
the  above  amount.  The  boy  went  to  town  as  quick  as  ever  man  flew 
over  the  old  Mission  road,  and  proceeded  at  once  to  the  Sheriff's  of- 
fice and  gave  a  detailed  description  of  the  robbers  and  the  affair.  Mr. 
Rowland  and  Under  Sheriff  Albert  Johnson  at  once  made  arrange- 
ments for  a  pursuit,  entertaining  no  doubt  but  that  it  was  Vasquez 
and  his  gang  of  freebooters.  In  less  than  a  quarter  of  an  hour  a 
number  of  fleet  horeea  had  been  procured  and  saddled,  and  a  party, 


152  A  SENSATION  IN  THE  OKANGE  GROVES, 

composed  of  officers  Sands,  Harris,  Hartley,  Redona,  and  Benites 
and  Mr.  Rodgers  and  Chautes,  led  by  Mr.  Rowland,  proceeded  out 
toward  the  neighborhood  of  the  outrage.  In  less  than  half  an  hour 
the  pursuing  party  arrived  within  sight  of  Mr.  Reppetto's  house,  and 
quick  as  a  flash  five  men  mounted  their  horses,  and  galloped  in  the  di- 
rection of  the  upper  Arroyo  Seco,  the  Rowland  party  giving  hot  pur- 
suit. 

While  all  this  exciting  work  was  going  on,  Charles  Miles  and  John 
Osborne,  who  had  been  hauling  some  piping  material  out  to  the  lands 
of  the  Orange  Grove  Association,  were  quietly  jogging  on  toward 
home.  Now,  if  you  had  told  these  two  gentlemen  that  Vasquez  was 
within  gunshot  of  them  they  would  have  laughed  in  your  face.  But 
all  of  a  sudden,  up  dashed  two  men,  cached  armed  with  a  Henry  rifle 
and  a  six  shooter,  and,  in  English,  demanded  a  halt.  Osborne 
thought  it  was  a  joke,  and  carelessly  dropped  the  rein  on  his  sorrel,  so 
as  to  increase  its  pace.  In  doing  so  be  drove  right  into  three  more  of 
the  bandits,  who  gave  him  to  understand  that  he  proceeded  further 
at  great  peril.  Vaequez,  quick  as  thought,  made  his  appearance  on 
the  near  side,  and  covered  Osborne  with  a  Henry  rifle,  which  little 
maneuver  caused  the  smiling  face  of  Miles  to  elongate  a  trifle.  Then 
he  smiled  again;  and  then,  as  a  Henry  rifle,  seemingly  as  big  as  a 
Dahlgren  gun,  iooled  around  his  left  ear,  he  drew  on  that  Platonic 
countenance  again,  and  began  to  view  the  scene  from  a  *  'business" 
standpoint.  Two  of  the  highwaymen  dismounted,  while  Vasquez 
and  the  two  men  who  did  not  dismount  covered  the  victims  in  the 
wagon  with  their  rifles  and  six-shooters'  "Hand  out  your  money  !" 
said  Vasquez,  *  'and  hurry  up,  for  there  are  a  do^en  men  coming  this 
way."  Mr.  Miles  declared  that  he  hadn't  got  a  cent  with  him, 
which  elicited  from  the  accommodating  knight  of  the  road,  "Then  I'll 
take  that  watch  !" 

At  this  juncture  the  urbane  City  Water  Collector  looked  first  at 
his  own  English  hunting  lever,  and  then  at  Osborne's,  because,  you 
see,  he  didn't  know  exactly  which  chronometer  suited  the  fancy  of 
the  California  Duval.  But  the  latter,  in  order  to  create  no  hard 
feelings  or  misunderstandings  in  the  matter,  took  both  of  them. 
About  three  dollars  and  a  half  in  United  States  silver  coin,  also,  was 
donated,  and  then  the  outfit  was  permitted  to  depart,  the  robbers,  ID 


A    SENSATION   IN    THE    ORANGE    GROVES.  153 

the  meantime,  perceiving  the  Harris  and  Sands  party  at   the   top   of 
the  hill  about  a  thousand  yards  off,  dashing  off  in  a  different  direction. 

Los  Angeles  was  wild  during  that  afternoon,  and  all  sorts  of  ru- 
mors gained  credence,  among  which  was  shat  "Jeemes  Pipes,  of 
Pipesville,"  had  been  killed. 

About  three  o'clock  Rowland,  after  locating  his  forces  as  best  he 
could,  returned  to  town  for  reinforcements .  believing  that,  with  a 
proper  number  of  men  at  his  command,  he  would  succeed  in  effecting 
a  capture.  In  a  few  moments  General  Baldwin  and  two  other  men, 
and  Constable  Bryant  and  three  others,  were  equipped,  and  in  the 
line  of  pursuit. 

To  continue  Vasquez's  account:  "After  my  escape,  I  wandered  for 
a  while  in  the  mountains;  was  near  enough  to  the  parties  who  were 
searching  for  me  to  kill  them  if  1  had  desired  so  to  do.  For  the  past 
three  weeks  I  have  had  my  camp  near  the  place  where  I  was  cap- 
tured, only  coming  to  the  house  at  intervals  to  get  a  meal.  I  was 
not  expecting  company  at  the  time  the  arrest  was  made,  or  the  re- 
sult might  have  been  different." 

The  foregoing  is  a  very  fair  paraphrase  of  the  recital  made  to  me 
by  Vasquez,  in  the  presence  of  Sheriff  Rowland.  Almost  all  of  it, 
except  his  version  of  the  Tres  Pinos  affair,  is  known  to  be  true .  Only 
the  leading  events  of  his  long  career  of  brigandage  and  outlawry 
are  described.  But  my  readers  can  draw  their  own  conclusion  as  to 
what  manner  of  man  Tiburcio  Vaequez  was.  He  protested  frequent- 
ly throughout  the  interview,  that  he  had  never  killed  a  man  in  his 
life. 

To  complete  this  sketch,  I  would  atate  that  during  the  September 
following  his  capture,  Vasquez  was  arraigned  in  the  Twelfth  District 
Court,  San  Jose,  for  the  murder  of  Leander  Davidson  at  Tres  Pinos. 
A  continuance  was  granted  until  Jan .  5,  1875.  On  that  day  the 
case  was  called,  Judge  Belden  presiding.  Charles  Ben  Darwin  and 
Mr.Tully  were  retained  for  the  defense.  Darwin  withdrew,  and  in 
his  place  Judge  Belden  appointed  Judge  W.  H.  Collins  and  Judge  J. 
A.  Moultrie.  Attorney -General  Love,  District  Attorney  Briggs,  of 
San  Benito  county,  Hon.  W.  E.  Lovett  and  District  Attorney  Bod- 
ely,  of  Santa  Clara  county,  appeared  for  the  people.  After  a  four 
days'  trial  Vasquez  was  found  guilty  of  murder  in  the  first  degree. 


154 


A  SENSATION  IN  THE  ORANGE  GROVES. 


On  the  23d  day  of  January,  1875,  he  was  sentenced  to  death,  and 
by  the  execution  of  that  sentence,  California  got  rid  of  one  of  the 
bloodiest  scoundrels  of  the  century. 


NATHAN,  THE  JEW. 

A  girl  in  years,  but  a  woman  in  shame,  wearied  by  the  night's 
dissipation,  let  herself  fall  upon  the  cold  steps  of  St.  Mary's  Cathe- 
dral. Her  tired  eyelids  touched  each  other  in  repose.  The  red  lips 
drooped  apart.  The  mist  moistened  the  burning  throat.  Her  hand 
involuntarily  stretched  toward  heaven.  Then  she  lay  motionless — 
asleep.  A  nimbus  of  shame  and  a  halo  of  glory  surrounded  her.  The 
ragged  dress  buttoned  before,  fell  apart,  and  disclosed  the  white  bos- 
om; but  none  saw,  save  the  morning  star,  and  no  one  was  gacri- 
legious  enough  to  caress,  except  the  falling  dew. 

Robert  Oswald,  who  was  passing,  stopped,  attracted  by  the  arm  ex- 
tended in  mute  appeal.  He  saw  her  bosom  rise  and  fall.  As  she 
moved  something  startled  him,  he  gave  a  cry  of  pain,  for  upon  the 
white  breast  he  saw  the  Hebraic  word, 


iDTT 


The  cry  awoke  the  sleeping  girl.  She  saw  the  open  dress,  and 
with  more  fear  than  shame  exclaimed : 

"Did  you  see?"  and  she  pulled  the  dress  with  a  convulsive  shrug 
together. 

"No,"  replied  the  man,  "I  saw  nothing." 

"If  you  did,  Fag  will  kill  you." 

"Do  not  get  excited  child,  no  harm  shall  come  to  you  through 
me,"  he  replied  kindly.  The  wild  light  left  her  eyes  and  the  melting 
lustre  returned  and  she  touched  his  arm  and  said:  "Go  away,  you 
ihould  not  come  to  a  girl's  sleeping  place,"  and  she  laughed. 

"Come  with  me  to  No.  5  Bartlett  Place,  "  he  replied. 

She  shook  her  head  so  fiercely  that  her  unkempt  hair  fell  about  her 
face,  and  said  angrily:  "lam  not  *  *  *  *  Oh,  you  did  see, 
didn't  you,  now?" 

"My  intentions  are  to  give  you   in  my  home  an  honorable  place  to 

*Un  chaste. 


156  NATHAN   THE   JEW. 

sleep,  a  breakfast  and  whatever  your   position  deserves,  and   then  to 
let  you  go  your  way.     I  am  a  gentleman,"  he  added. 

She  laughed.  "You  may  be,  but  gentlemen  sleep  at  this  time 
o'night." 

"Will  you  go  with  me?"  he  asked  somewhat  impatiently, 

'•I  think  you  good,"  she  said  as  she  turned  her  sorrowful  face  to- 
wards him.  She  then  approached  him  and  together  they  turned  the 
comer  of  St.  Mary's  and  started  out  Dupont  street,  through  the  heart 
of  the  city  towards  Robert  Oswald's  home. 

She  found  rest  and  sleep.  In  the  morning  her  eyes  had  grown 
larger  and  her  cheeks  a  little  paler.  Her  limbs  were  thin  but  stil 
graceful.  Her  eyes  had  a  beautiful  pathetic  light  in  them.  Her 
hands  were  coarse,  but  her  lips  were  red,  and,  drooping  with  sadness, 
were  in  sympathy  with  the  beauty  of  her  eyes.  This  was  Ivern  at 
the  age  of  eighteen.  Robert  Oswald  waited  for  her  in  the  morning. 
He  greeted  her  cordially.  She  returned  it  with  shyness.  "I  must  go 
now,"  she  said. 

"Where  must  you  go  ?'! 

"To  my  home,"  she  answered. 

"Where  do  you  live  ?"  he  asked. 

"Most  of  my  time  on  the  street.  Rest  of  the  time,  anywhere,"  she 
replied. 

"Have  you  no  parents  or  friends  to  care  for  you  ?" 

"Can't  you  see,"  she  replied,  "I'm  a  Jewess  but  I'm  cursed.  I 
don't  know  why.  I  always  live  among  bad  people,  and  that's  all  I 
know,  exceptin*  some  how  or  other  I  think,  and  other  people  like  me 
don't.  I  can't  say  any  more,  but  I've  trouble,  for  see,  my  hair  is 
brown  and  gray.  The  gray  comes  from  thinkin'.  Sometimes  I  work 
and  makes  money,  but  I  always  lose  my  place  because  I'm  cursed. 
You've  been  very  kind  to  me."  As  she  spoke  her  wistful  face 
became  radiant.  Although  she  called  herself  a  Jewess,  her  face 
was  of  the  highest  German  type,  small,  delicate  features,  rich  lips, 
clear  complexion  and  deep  violet  eyes.  Indeed,  she  was  not  at  all 
of  the  Jewish  type,  except  in  her  slender,  upright,  graceful  figure. 
The  expression  of  her  face  was  bright  and  intelligent.  There  is  a 
Sixteenth  Century  picture  over  the  door-way  in  the  museum  at  Bos- 
ton of  a  maiden  princess,  painted  by  a  German.  The  original  was 


NATHAN    THE   JEW.  157 

a  German  girl  with  the  sparkle  and  fire  of  the  Italian.     The  picture 
might  have  been  a  portrait  of  Ivern,  the  resemblance  was  so  strong. 

She  waited  but  a  moment,  then  was  gone.  Robert  Oswald  called 
after  her  but  she  only  turned  and  gave  him  a  bewitching  look. 

"I  am  happy  but  the  scars  are  still  there,"  exclaimed  Ivern  when 
she  was  out  of  sight.  "Oh,  those  terrible  words — I  wish  I  could 
cut  them  out — I  will  some  day !" 

Before  she  had  gone  far  a  little  squint-eyed  fellow,  bow-legged  and 
crooked  of  feature,  addressed  her. 

"Hello!  Ivern,  don't  you  know  me  ?  I'm  same  old  Fag,  even  if  I 
be  in  business," 

"Of  course  I  know  you.     Still  at  your  old  tricks  ?"  she  replied. 

"No,  I've  joined  the  Silver  Star  Sunday-School,  and  if  I  don't  get 
pulled  again,  I'll  be  boss  of  the  concern." 

"You're  too  ambitious  Fag." 

"No,  I  am  not,  for  the  teacher  said  that  often  times  bootblacks, 
newsboys  and  theives  become  great  men  like  himself." 

"I  hope  you  will  do  well  Fag.  Did  you  see  Paul  since  yester- 
day ?" 

"No,  except  in*  through  the  winder  at  the  bank.  He  wasn't 
a-lookin'  feryou  at  all." 

"I  must  see  him,  Fag;  will  you  tell  him  to  meet  me  at  the  old 
place  near  Zeiles?" 

"Of  course,  I  will;  Fag  will  do  anything  for  his  friends.  You 
see  they  ain't  many,  but  what  there  is,  I  stands  by  'em." 

Fag  was  a  boy  of  the  world.  He  was  a  wicked,  and  an  amusing 
little  fellow,  full  of  dislikes,  impulses  and  kindly  feelings.  He  rep- 
resented a  phase  of  life  to  be  studied  for  the  good  the  re  is  in  it.  Of 
a  fine  evening,  the  narrow  streets  in  the  heart  of  the  poor  portion  of 
the  city  swarm  with  children.  Their  earlier  experiences  are  of  a 
most  degrading  character.  The  mature  years  fulfill  the  evil  promises 
of  childhood,  and  the  litt.le  sins  become  the  crimes  of  old  age.  Fag 
was  a  resident  of  Pacific  street,  and  a  notable  figure,  on  account  of 
his  crooked  back  with  his  papers  and  blacking  outfit. 

All  day  long  he  watched  for  Paul,  so  that  he  might  do  Ivern 
a  favor.  '  The  night  approached,  twilight  glittered  around  him,  the 
lamps  were  lit,  the  people  were  hurrying  home.  He  was  without 


158  NATHAN   THE   JEW. 

money,  and  he  dared  not  hold  out  his  hand  in  pity.  Fag  was  hungry; 
he  put  his  hand  under  his  vest  and  tried  to  press  together  the  great 
empty  space  that  called  for  food.  Did  you  ever  realize  what  it  is 
to  be  hungry  ?  Not  the  hunger  where  a  meal  is  within  easy  reach, 
but  to  want  something  to  eat  and  be  without  money,  and  without 
friends.  The  cry  within  becomes  the  howl  of  the  tiger.  You  turn 
and  curse  the  world  and  cry,  "Alone  I"  Fag  was  hungry;  he  looked 
around  the  street  corners  trying  to  make  an  honest  bit.  Despair 
seized  him. 

"I'll  sell  my  outfit,  "  he  thought.  Then  he  hurried  around  to 
631  Clay  street,  and  entered  the  store  of  Nathan,  the  Jew. 

'Ha  !  you  leetle  thief,  vat  you  wants  to  steal  ?"  was  the  greeting* 
'Won't  you  buy  my  blacken  brush?"  timidly  asked  Fag. 
'No,  get  out;  I  hab  no  use.     You  stole  'em  some  where." 
'I  didn't;  I  bought 'em,  with  my  word  of  honor." 
'Veil,  I  guess  I  gifs  you  dat  much,"  replied  Nathan. 
'No,    I   want  to  get   my   supper.     I   haven't   eaten  anything  all 
day." 

"Veil,  I  tells  you  vat  I  do.  If  you  go  to  No.  5  Bartlett  Place,  an' 
call  out  the  man  who  lifs  there,  an'  tell  him  that  you  see  a  Jewess 
and  her  child  in  a  saloon  singing  songs,  and  calling  for  Robert  Os- 
wald, then  I  gifs  you  von  dollar  for  dose  tings.  But  you  mustn't 
tell  vot  I  told  you,  or  I'll  treat  yur  like  this:"  "Oh  !  Oh  !"  screamed 
Fag,  as  he  was  whirled  around  by  the  ear. 
"Yes,  I'll  do  it.  Let  go,"  he  entreated. 

"Tell  him  no  more  than  vot  I  tel's  you;  then  run  away  quick,  and 
I  gifs  you  von  dollar  when  you  comes  back." 

Fag  wasted  no  time  in  getting  away.  He  hated  the  Jew,  but 
started  to  do  his  service. 

Nathan  returned  to  his  work.  He  opened  his  book.  There  across 
the  ledger  was  written  the  name  of  Robert  Oswald,  and  after  it  a 
red  cross,  the  silent  token  of  the  descendants  of  the  tribe  of  Benja- 
min of  vengeance.  His  bent  form,  still  bent  lower,  and  his  small, 
bright  eyes  sparkled  and  flashed.  His  face  which  had  the  appear, 
ance  of  shrewdness  in  repose,  wore  the  expression  of  a  laughing  fiend, 
as  he  thought  how  well  he  kept  his  oath  of  vengeance,  and  that  Fag 
would  add  new  life  to  the  pain  that  was  killing  Robert  Oswald. 


NATHAN    THE    JEW.  159 

Nathan  is  an  historical  character,  a  black  Jew,  born  in  Barnow, 
educated  in  the  Bowery,  New  York,  and  engaged  in  a  semi-legitimate 
business  at  631  Clay  street,  San  Francisco. 

He  had  gathered  about  him  in  his  career,  trinkets  and  valuables  of 
every  kind.  His  store  was  filled  with  the  cast-off  truck  of  the  impe- 
cunious, and  the  pledged  jewels  and  goods  of  those  who  suffer  by  the 
wheels  of  fortune  turning  backward.  There  were  diamonds,  rings, 
watches,  breastpins,  ear-rings,  trunks,  jackets,  coats,  skirts,  silken 
hose,  fine  gloves,  gold-headed  canes,  penknives,  silverware,  razors, 
cradles,  rare  and  valuable  books,  sea  shells,  bundles  of  old  love  letters, 
which  he  had  accepted  on  deposit,  old  clothes,  household  furniture, 
from  an  armless  stool  to  a  satin-covered  ottoman,  worthless  riddles, 
music  boxes,  gold  peni,  old  pipes,  mosses,  innumerable  pistols  and 
shooting  irons,  bowie-knives,  brass  kettles,  silver  drinking  goblets. 
What  a  wonderful  story  the  stock  of  pawned  wares  tell !  Who  can 
count  the  heartaches  of  each  treasured  trinket,  as  the  owner  reluc- 
tantly parted  with  it  for  bread  ?  Who  can  measure  the  grief  of  the 
lonely  maiden  as  she  wends  her  way  to  old  Nathan,  the  Jew,  to  pawn 
her  lover's  gift ?  Boundless  i?  the"  silent  grief  of  the  forsaken  one. 
We  cannot  turn  a  deaf  ear  to  a  tale  ef  woe,  but  the  deepest  so  10  w  is 
silent  and  dumb. 

CHAPTER   II 

I  can  hardly  proceed  with  the  details  of  the  story.  It  seems  so 
incredible.  Only  the  few  people  who  are  familiar  with  the  fanati- 
cism and  vindictivenesa  that  prevails  among  the  very  ignorant  .Jews 
would  comprehend  how  such  things  could  really  be.  All  others  will 
doubt.  I  can  only  say,  the  story  is  true.  I  did  not  invent  any  por- 
tion of  it.  Besides,  the  story  is  a  sad  one,  and  the  hiss  of  the  ser- 
pent is  heard  among  the  flowers. 

Fag  found  his  way  to  No.  5,  Bartletfc  Place,  and  bravely  rang  the 
bell.  The  door  was  opened  by  Eobert  Oswald  himself . 

"I  seed  a  Jewess  and  her  child  a-singin'  songs  in  a  saloon,  and 
a-callin*  for  Robert  Oswald,"  said  Fag,  quickly. 

"Take  me  there  at  once.  It  is  she;  it  is  !  it  is  !"  exclaimed  Os- 
wald. 


160  NATHAN    THE    JEW, 

"Gimme  a  dollar,  and  I'll  tell  you  more,"  replied  the  ready-witted 
Fag. 

'  'Here,  tell  me  all,  quick  !  replied  the  now  excited  man. 

"Nathan  told  me  to  tell  you,  and  I  bet  it's  all  a  lie,"  said  Fag. 

"Curse  the  Jew  !  Will  he  never  let  me  be  in  peace  ?  I  will  meet 
him  again." 

In  a  minute  he  was  on  the  street,  followed  at  a  respectful  distance 
by  Fag.  As  he  entered  Nathan's  place,  the  Jew  came  forward, 
stroking  his  long,  pointed  burnsides,  and  licking  his  moustache. 

"Meester  Oswald,  you  do  me  too  much  honor  by  your  presence. 
You  want  to  know  about  your  wife,  eh,  and  von  leetle  girl.  Dey  be 
bad,  very  bad." 

Oswald  laid  a  hand  on  the  Jew's  shoulder.  "{Silence,  wretch  ! 
Silence  !  I  will  not  listen." 

"Meester  Oswald  not  like  Meester  Nathan's  curse.  It  bees  too 
much  like  God's  curse  on  the  Jews,  eh  ?" 

A  number  of  people  collected  about  the  two  men. 

"1  care  not  for  your  curse.  It  is  my  wife  and  daughter — your 
daughter  and  my  child — I  want." 

"My  daughter,  your  wife,  and  her  child,  be  nothings  to  me. 
They  are  marked  with  a " 

"Stop,  fiend,  or  I'll  choke  you." 

Then  dropping  his  arm  he  turned  and  fled.  He  rushed  home  like 
a  hunted  creature.  He  sank  half  fainting  on  the  stone  steps. 

"Then,  kind  Heaven,  the  mark  I  saw  on  the  girl's  bosom,  was 
put  there  by  Nathan,  and  she  is  my  daughter.  Degraded  or  pure 
I  will  claim  her  for  she  is  more  of  a  Christian  than  a  Jew. 

He  arose  and  with  the  painful  and  suppressed  emotion,  that  the 
girl  he  had  taken  off  the  streets  the  night  before,  was  his  child. 

He  did  not  proceed  far  until  he  again  met  Fag.  The  little  fellow 
was  not  averse  to  seeing  him.  Mr.  Oswald  asked  him  at  once 
in  reference  to  Ivern. 

"Do  you  know  the  girl  that  Nathan  told  you  was  singing  in  a 
saloon?" 

"No  pur.     Do  you?"  replied  Fag. 

f'I  saw  her  this  morning.       She  was  at  my  place  last  night." 


NATHAN    THE   JEW.  161 

"Golly,  I  ni3t  her,  that  was  Ivern,  I  know  her!  Of  course  I  do. 
Never  was  a  time  I  did'nt  know  her.  She  and  me  are  old 
'quaintances,"  replied  Fag. 

"Where  can  I  find  her?     She  is  my  daughter." 

"Sure  now,  you're  foolin'.  She  aint  got  no  father,  I  heard  her 
say  many  and  many  a  time.  She  haint.no  mother,  but  I  guess  you're 
all  right,  and  I'll  tell  you  where  to  find  her.  She  alms  meets  Paul, 
oppopite  Zeile's,  when  the  whistles  blow." 

"Come  with  me",  commanded  Oswald,  and  the  two  started  off 
together. 

A  little  while  before  they  arrived  at  the  place,  there  could  have 
been  seen  walking  up  and  down  the  street,  a  young  man,  of  well 
rounded  figure,  erect  carriage,  with  a  strong  German  face.  He 
appeared  to  the  observer  to  be  about  twenty  years  of  age,  but  he 
was  past  twenty  four.  Around  the  corner  came  a  young  girl,  with 
quick  step,  and  a  lithe  graceful  movement.  It  was  Ivern. 

The  young  man,  Paul  Wedekind,  met  her.  "Was  ever  lover  so 
punctual  as  I?"  he  asked. 

"I  never  bad  any  but  you  to  know,"  she  replied. 

"I  wish  I  could  believe  you,"  he  answered. 

"And  I  wish  I  could  believe  you,"  she  replied. 

"Then  why  doubt  me  if  you  wish  to  believe  ?" 

"Because  if  I  trust  you,  I'll  love  you,  then  my  will  is  gone  and 
I'm  afraid  I'd  be  like  .  ,  .  the  marks  .  .  .  Oh,  God!  there  is  an 
awful  pain  in  my  breast.  There  is  something  here  that  burns." 

"Why,  what  grea*;  mystery  do  you  hide  from  me?  It  is  terrible, 
ah,  more,  it  is  extraordinary,  that  you  should  become  so  tragic,  and 
alwavs  refer  to  some  hidden  mark.  Does  your  modesty  forbid  you 
to  tell  me  ?" 

"Do  you  not  understand,  Paul,  that  I  am  a  street  waif.  Ask 
Nathan,  the  Jew,  what  mystery  I  hide  from  you?  But  it  is  not 
that,  for  I  know  you  would  not  like  me,  if  I  was  bad  like  the  rest  of 
them  is.  I  am  not  good,  but  I  am  not  bad,  exceptin'  I  never  learned 
Anything  only  from  the  sea  as  it  talked  to  me,  and  the  fishes  I  used 
to  sell,  and  from  the  flowers — you  know  you  bought  a  bunch  of 
violet?  from  me  long  ago;  that's  when  I  first  knew  you,  I  am  not 


162  NATHAN    THE   JEW. 

so  awful  chimb  as  not  to  know  that  I  am  not  the  kind  of  a  girl  you 
ought  to  make  real  love  to. " 

"But  Ivern  have  I  not  loved  you  ever  since  you  were  little;  and  I 
have  believed,  and  believe  yet  that  your  purity  of  thought  amid 
such  surroundings  is  due  to  your  birth." 

"You  have  been  awful  good  to  me,  that's  why  I  let  you  kiss  me. 
It's  not  because  I  think  you  ought  to.  You  must  go  now,  Paul; 
Til  never  be  fit  for  you,  but  I  always  want  you  for  my  friend." 

"You  are  fit  for  me,  our  love  makes  us  equal;  I  will  not  give  you 
up." 

"Now,  Paul,  you  forget  that  I  use  to  talk  slang,  and  how  you 
scolded  me  when  you  found  me  in  a  ealoon  jesting  with  the  men. 
You  forget  those  things.  It  was  you  that  teached  me  to  talk  right 
and  I'll  never,  never  allow  you  to  love  just  because  you  think  you 
ought  to.  Go  away  now." 

"Ivern  you  do  not  understand  that  it  is  you  I  love,  and  once  I 
love  it  is  with  my  life.  It  makes  a  furnace  so  hot  within  my  heart 
that  steal  would  melt  and  run  like  water.  Love  is  the  most  intoxi- 
cating poison  my  darling." 

"I  do  not  like  the  word,"  said  Ivern  with  a  shudder. 

"Do  you  not  like  the  word  darling?"  he  asked.  *  ^ 

"I  do  not  mean  that  word,  I  mean  poison.  It  kills.  Love  eeerns 
more  like  sherry  to  me.  It  makes  me  tipsy  with  wild  joy.  Only 
love  is  far,  far  away.  I've  seen  it  in  pictures,  I've  read  it  in  other 
eyes.  I've  dreamed  of  it;  but  it  is  always  over  the  sea." 

"It  is  near  you  now  and  you  are  too  strong  willed  to  have  it. 
Come  let  me  give  you  mv  protection  and  your  sweet  eyes  will  lose 
their  sadness,  and  your  face  will  brighten  and  never  know  trouble 
any  more." 

"You  make  my  trouble  now  the  dearest  thing  I  havg  had  in  life. 
But  I  know  you  Paul.  You  love  me  just  because  I  am  strong-willed. 
I  saw  Fag  chase  a  butterfly,  and  when  he  caught  it  he  did  not  care 
for  it,  the  beauty  was  all  rubbed  off.  That  is  the  way  with  you. 
You  want  me,  but  if  you  had  me  you  would  not  want  me.  I  know 
that  life-love  is  between  equals.  I  once  saw  a  flower  tied  to  a  weed, 
it  made  the  weed  prettier  but  the  flower  died,  that's  like  me  and 
you." 


NATHA.N   THE   JEW.  163 

Paul  stood  before  the  girl  he  pitied  in  admiration.  He  knew  that 
the  ^character  born  in  Ivern  was  stronger  than  the  one  attained  by 
him!  The  student  of  human  nature  would  say,  that  she  combined 
the  best  traits  of  the  Irish  and  the  German  or  that  of  the  inherited, 
the  strength  and  the  craftin  ess  of  Jewish  character,  softened  and  en- 
nobled by  pure  American  blood.  Paul  could  not  but  contem- 
plate the  face  and  then  the  thought  of  his  own  weakness  made  him 
silent.  For  he  would  soon  leave  Ivern,  to  enter  the  presence  of 
Anethe,  his  promised  bride.  His  dual  nature  had  found  its  comple- 
ment in  the  graceful  and  intelligent  woman  of  his  own  sphere,  aad  in 
the  overpowering  personality  of  a  street  waif.  He  had  thought  that 
love  was  but  an  incident  in  life,  but  rubbish  in  a  man's  way  as 
he  winds  tediously  upwards,  and  now  it  turned  him  from  his  course  as 
effectually  as  the  stroke  of  death. 

"There  she  is!"  exclaimed  Fag,  as  she  and  Mr.  Oswald  turned  the 
corner. 

"At  last!  At  last!  I  have  found  you,"  cried  Oswald,  as  he 
rushed  towards  her.  Ivern  dresv  back,  and  Paul  put  his  arm  about 
her  as  if  she  needed  protection. 

"Do  not  shrink  from  me.  I  am  your  father.  Is  there  not  a  mark 
upon  your  breast  placed  there  by  Nathan  as  a  curse  upon  the  child  of 
his  daughter  for  marrying  me,  a  Christian.  Speak!  .  .  .  Speak 
quickly!" 

"Yes,"  replied  Ivern  trembling  with  a  timid  feeling,  between  hope 
and  fear  but  Nathan  said  I  had  no  father  and  that  my  mother  was  a 

oh,  no!     I   know  it  is  not    true,   but   only  yesterday   he 

said  she  was  of  the  Jews  of  Barnow  and  the  mark  I  wear  is  the  brand 
of  her  shame,  aud  it  has  burned  through  my  breast  to  my  heart.  Do 
not  lie  to  me.  Perhaps  Nathan  has  sent  you  to  torture  me.  Tell 
me,  was  my  mother  pure?" 

"As  pure  as  heaven.  Oh  L^a!  that  your  child  for  a  moment 
should  think  that  you  were  not  true  and  good!" 

'' You  say  that  my  mother  was  pure,  then  I  believe  that  you  are  my 
father  and  I  will  love  you." 

She  kissed  her  father  and  Fag  and  Paul.  "You  brought  him  to 
me,"  she  said  to  Fag,  "and  you  saved  ine  from  sin,"  she  said  to 
Paul. 

ov  Ta* 


164  NATHAN    THE   JEW. 

On  their  way  to  No.  5  Bartlett  Place  Mr.  Oswald  told  the  follow- 
ing story:  "Twenty  years  ago  I  was  passing  Nathan's  home  and  I 
saw  him  beating  a  beautiful  girl.  I  rescued  her  from  the  torture . 
She  proved  to  be  his  daughter.  I  fell  deeply  in  love  with  her  and 
without  delay  we  were  married.  It  so  enraged  Nathan  that  his 
daughter  showld  marry  a  Christian  that  he  cursed  her  and  her  chil- 
dren. He  inherited  the  superstition,  fanaticisms  and  bigotry  of  the 
Barnow  people.  He  hated  all  the  more  bitterly  because  he  lived 
among  other  sects.  A  child  was  born  and  for  a  time  we  lived  happily 
together,  and  Nathan's  terrible  oath  was  forgotfen.  I  was  compelled 
to  go  East.  When  I  returned  my  wife  was  missing,  my  child  was 
also  gone.  I  approached  Nathan  and  demanded  that  he  give  me  in- 
formation. He  replied:  "A  Jew  never  forgets  an  oath."  At  last  he 
confessed,  to  save  himself  from  death,  for  I  would  have  strangled  him, 
that  he  sent  my  wife  to  Poland.  I  made  immediate  preparations  for 
departure.  I  tracked  her  to  New  York  and  found  out  upon  which 
steamer  she  had  sailed.  I  went  to  Poland.  I  spent  months  in 
search  of  her,  but  to  no  avail.  I  returned,  and  Nathan  told  me  that 
Lea  was  leading  a  life  of  dissipation  in  the  city.  Then  he  tells  me 
she  is  dead.  Thus  he  lies  to  me.  I  have  lived  a  constant  life  of 
suspense.  A  year  ago  he  told  me  that  my  child  was  in  the  Magdalen 
Asylum.  Yesterday  I  learned  from  him  that  you  had  burned  upon 
your  heart  the  Hebraic  words.  Then  I  knew  that  my  years  of 
•earch  were  rewarded. 

CHAPTER  III. 

Paul  hurried  to  the  residence  of  Auethe.  An  hoar  after  he  had 
poured  forth  love  to  Ivern  in  the  shadow  of  a  street  corner,  he  stood 
in  the  presence  of  his  promised  bride  concealed  by  the  rich  draperies 
of  a  luxurious  parlor.  He  came  determined  to  ask  that  the  sacred 
bond  be  broken  and  to  tell  the  unhappy  story  of  his  love  for  Ivern. 
The  dim-lit  parlor  cast  a  charming  shadow  over  her  beauty  and  Paul 
stood  undecided.  There  was  such  a  rich  color  to  Anethe's  lips,  such 
a  gentle  pursuasive  coaxing  look  in  her  eyes.  The  shadows  creeping 
in  and  out  through  her  sun-tinted  hair  and  across  her  face  made  him 
forget  the  girl  he  had  left. 

Anethe   was   comely.     She  was  divinely  fair.     Was  man  ever  to 


NATHAN  THE  JEW.  165 

arrogant  as  to  cast  aside  the  love  and  treasures  of  such  a  woman's 
heart  for  the  helpless,  branded,  girl  like  Ivern  ?  Under  the  facinating 
gaze  of  Anethe  Paul  forgot  his  errand.  He  was  weak  in  the  pres- 
ence of  the  woman  who  loved  him.  Instead  of  telling  her  of  his 
faithlessness,  he  pictured  to  her  the  golden  dawn  of  their  future.  Is 
it  any  wonder  that  men.  who  think,  grow  cynical  and  lose  respect  for 
humanity.  But  Ivern  was  still  uppermost  in  his  mind,  and  in  a  mo- 
ment of  thoughtlessness  he  mentioned  her  name.  Anethe,  with  the 
jealous  watchfulness  of  love,  quickly  asked : 

" Who  is  Ivern?" 

"Just  a  girl  I  have  aided  to  get  employment,"  he  answered. 

* 'I  trust  you  Paul,  but  I  know  little  of  your  life.  You  are  too 
honorable  to  do  anything  that  is  wrong,  but  I  pray  that  you  will  not 
deceive  me  in  the  least.  It  seems  odd  for  you  to  be  interested  in  a 
girl  in  that  way,  unless  she  is  some  particular  friend.  Have  you 
known  her  long?" 

"I  have  known  her  five  or  six  years.*' 

"And  never  told  me  about  her?" 

"Would  you  lika  to  know  about  the  beggars,  street  girls  and  waifs 
that  all  men  meet  in  their  lives,  and  are  forced  to  aid  in  one  way  or 
the  other?" 

"I  would  like  to  know  about  Ivern.     Is  she  beautiful  ?" 

"Not  pretty  like  you." 

"I  did  not  ask  you  for  a  compliment.  Tell  me  about  Ivern,  her 
very  name  fascinates  me  ?" 

"Would  you  like  to  know  about  the  people  who  visit  dance  halls, 
low  theaters,  people  who  beg,  steal  and  cheat  for  a  living,  the  low, 
debased  and  vicious?  Ivern  belongs  to  the  class,  though  there  is  a 
spice  of  nobleness  with  the  taint  of  shame  in  her  life.  Do  not  look 
displeased  Anethe.  I  met  her  through  a  friend  of  h«rs,  called  Fag, 
who  wished  me  to  give  her  some  money  to  save  her  from  a  greater 
crime  than  begging.  She  wes  so  interesting  that  in  all  the  years  I 
have  not  lost  track  of  her.  Are  you  satisfied  now?" 

"Perhaps  there  is  something  more  to  tell?"  replied  Anethe. 

"Jealous  heart,  keep  silence.  If  I  am  a  man,  I  have  a  conscience, 
and  I  would  be  true  to  you  were  you  not  half  so  fair." 

Anethe  was  not  quire  satisfied.     She    silently  determined,  to  find 


166  NATHAN   THE   JEW. 

out  more  about  Ivern.  The  reluctance  of  Paul  to  talk,  his  protesta- 
tions of  love  and  over-defence  of  himself  against  her  insinuations  told 
a  story  that  she,  though  unwilling,  still  read. 

The  next  evening  found  Paul  at  No.  5  Bartlett  Place.  Soon  after 
he  rang  the  bell.  Fag  opened  the  door. 

"Ivern  told  me  to  keep  you  ou*  if  you  come." 

"I  must  see  her.     Let  me  in." 

"Cant,  thems  my  orders,  but  Paul, you  helped  nie  and  if  you  want 
in,  why  just  push  me  away;I  can't  help  it  you're  bigger  than  me.' 

Paul  gave  him  a  push  and  he  fell  full  length  upon  the  floor.  Be- 
fore Fag  had  time  to  arise  Paul  had  grasped  Ivern  by  the  hand. 

"Paul,  you  shouldn't  have  come,yet  I  am  glad  to  see  you/'  she  re- 
plied. 

"How  greatly  improved  you  are  since|yesterday,"  he  replied,  heed- 
less of  the  rebuke. 

"Well  you  see  Paul  papa  says  that  I  am  his  real  daughter  ,•  nd  am 
not  to  be  nobody  any  more.  So,  he  bought  me  all  this  trumpery 
which  makes  me  look  better  than  I  feel.  But  Paul , 

"What  is  it,  Ivern?" 

"You  forgot  something." 

"What  did  I  forget?" 

"Can't  you  guess?" 

"No." 

< '  Then  I'll  never  tell  you . ' ' 

"Please  do." 

She  looked  up  at  him  and  artfully  said:  "Do  you  remember  what 
you  took  with  you  when  you  went  away  ?" 

"I  really  do  not." 

"Did  you  not  bring  me  one  ?', 

"I  do  not  know  what  you  mean." 

"Oh,  Paul,  you're  stupid,"  she  said  with  pouting  lips. 

"I  know  what  it  was,"  exclaimed  Fag. 

"You  kissed  her.  You  thought  1  wasn't  looking  but  I  was  a 
wantin*  one  myself." 

Paul  stretched  out  his  arms,  but  Ivern  covered  her  face  and  slipped 
away  from  bis  presence.  She  did  not  want  her  trembling  lips 
touched  after  Fag's  jest,  even  by  one  she  so  dearly  loved. 


NATHAN    THE    JEW.  167 

''Come  Ivern;  I  want  you  to  go  with  me  to  Nathan's,  to  find  some 
trace  of  your  mother.  He  will  not  refuse  us ." 

"I  will  go,"  she  replied. 

It  was  early  when  they  started.  Fag,  with  a  jealous  eye,  shad- 
owed them.  They  were  about  to  enter  the  trade-shop  of  Nathan 
when  he  appeared.  A  gleam  of  triumph  was  in  his  eye  as  he  stroked 
his  beard  with  both  hands. 

"You  bring  dat  girl  here  !  Avay  mit  you  !  I  be  contaminated  by  a 
voman  like  dat.  She  is " 

"Stop,  wretch,  or  Til " 

«She  is " 

"Stop  !"  cried  Paul. 

"She  is  a "  Before  he  could  speak  the  word,  Paul  struck  him 

a  blow;  but  the  Jew,  like  a  serpent,  coiled  about  him,  bore  him 
forcibly  to  the  pavement.  As  he  lay  helpless  upon  the  street, 
Nathan  raised  his  steel-tapped  heel,  and  despite  the  strenuous  efforts 
of  Ivern,  it  descended  upon  his  forehead,  scraping  the  flesh  away  to 
the  bone. 

Fag  seized  upon  Nathan's  leg  with  his  teeth,  but  he  shook  him  off 
like  the  wind  does  the  icicle  upon  the  swaying  branch.  Again 
the  heel  was  raised,  this  time  to  descend  with  murderous  force.  The 
dim  light  of  the  city  lit  up  his  fiendish  face.  Ivern  saw,  and  cried 
out,  "Murder  !"  The  frightened  Jew,  at  the  approach  of  others, 
fled. 

Paul  was  badly  hurt.  He  was  carried  to  a  surgeon's  office  near. 
Whea  he  was  told  that  he  was  seriously  hurt  and  would  not  be  able 
to  be  moved  for  several  days,  he  called  Fag,  and  requested  that  he 
should  deliver  a  message  to  Anethe  Howard,  so  that  she  would  not 
be  frightened  by  an  exaggerated  account  of  the  affair. 

Anethe  admitted  Fag,  and  instead  of  delivering  Paul's  meseage — 
that  the  injury  waa  slight— he  said: 

"Poor  Paul,  my  best  friend,  is  hurt.  I'll  kill  Nathan  !  He 
mashed  Paul's  head  with  his  heel.  I'll  kill  Nathan  !" 

"Tell  me  what  you  mean.  Has  anything  happened  to  Paul?" 
asked  Anethe,  bewildered  by  Fag's  talk. 

4 'I  have  just  been  tellin'  you  what  Paul  told  me  to   tell    you,  that 


168  NATHAN   THE    JEW. 

"Nathan  killed  him,  but  I'll  kill  the  Jew,  I  will!  Fag  never  forget* 
what  he  says.  Paul  is  all  bloody." 

"For  God's  sake,  stop !  Tell  me,  are  you  crazy?"  cried  An- 
ethe. 

"P'raps  I  am.  I  hope  I  be,  if  I  don't  kill  the  Jew  cause  Paul's 
blood  is  ppilt  on  the  pavement.  See  here;  it  has  kind  o'  painted 
this  patch  on  my  pants  red ." 

"My  God  !  do  not  Bay  any  more.     Paul  is  dead  !" 

Anethe  began  to  scream  for  help,  and  with  the  assistance  of  her 
mother,  obtained  from  Fag  a  more  lucid  account  of  the  tragedy. 
They  were  soon  on  their  way  to  see  Paul. 

Tvern  did  not  leave  his  side.  She  watched  him  with  painful  eyes, 
not  quite  tearless.  The  snrgeon  came  to  her,  and  said : 

"He  has  been  peverely  hurt,  but  will  soon  recover.  He  has, 
however,  loit  the  flesh  from  his  forel  tad,  and  will  be  badly  disfigured 
unless  I  get  some  one  who  is  quite  brave  to  help  me." 

"I'll  do  anything  for  Paul.     He  is  my  friend,"  replied  Ivern. 

The  doctor  pointed  to  Paul,  who  was  now  unconscious,  and  with 
his  finger  traced  the  space  cut  by  the  sharp  heel  of  the  Jew,  as  he 
spoke : 

"I  need  a  piece  of  flesh  large  enough  to  sew  in  there." 

"Where  will  you  get  it  ?"  quietly  asked  Ivern,  with  a  slight 
tremor. 

"From  your  arm,"  he  replied. 

"Doctor,  you  may  cut  it  from  my  check,"  and  she  touched  the 
rosiest  spot  on  her  face,  and  pinched  the  delicate  flesh  until  it  stood 
out,  for  the  surgeon's  knife.  The  blood  of  a  peculiar  people  ran  in 
her  veins,  a  people  who  would  demand  a  pound  of  flesh  for  money, 
and  would  give  one  for  love. 

"No,  I  do  not  wish  to  disfigure  you.  I  do  not  even  wish  to  pain  you." 

"It  will  not  hurt,"  replied  Ivern. 

"Then  the  sooner  it  is  done  the  better." 

He  had  her  uncover  her  arm  to  the  shoulder.  The  doctor  gazed 
rather  tenderly  on  her. 

There  was  a  gleam  of  coquetry  in  Ivern's  eye,  and  witchery  in  her 
glance  as  she  met  the  doctor's  look  of  admiration. 

"I  cannot  cut  that  arm,"  he  replied. 


NATHAN   THE   JEW.  169 

"Then  I'll  do  it,"  she  said. 

"Turn  your  head,  please.  Your  eyes  are  apt  to  make  a  man 
nervous." 

"You  are  a  sentimental  surgeon/'  she  replied. 

She  did  not  turn  her  head,  but  watched  amused  and  pleased  with 
his  gentle  touch,  and  blushing,  tremulous  face. 

He  would  press  her  delicate  skin,  then  pause.  He  loitered  over 
the  operation  like  a  hawk  over  unprotected  prey.  Then  with  a  care- 
ful estimate  of  the  flesh  desired,  he  took  it  between  his  thumb  and 
finger  and  severed  it  with  a  stroke,  and  held  it  up,  the  blood  drip- 
ping off  on  the  uncarpeted  floor. 

"Quick,  doctor,  you  are  not  a  careful  surgeon,"  exclaimed  Ivern. 

"But  see,  you  bleed.     Wait,  I  will  bandage  your  arm." 

"Never  mind  me,  that's  nothin'  but  mean  Jew  blood  anyhow.  I 
wish  it  would  all  run  out  of  me/' 

Juet  as  the  operation  was  complete,  Anethe  and  Fag  were  an- 
nounced. As  the  former  came  in,  Ivern  withdrew  to  a  shadowed 
corner  of  the  room.  Anethe  went  direct  to  the  couch,  and  bending 
over  Paul,  kissed  him. 

Ivern  hid  deeper  in  the  shadow,  and  her  nails  pierced  the  flesh  in 
her  hands  as  she  listened  to  Anethe  explaining  to  the  doctor,  that  as 
she  was  soon  to  wed  the  wounded  man,  that  she  was  there  to  watch 
over  him,  and  would  remain  at  his  side.  It  was  a  bitter,  a  cruel 
revelation  for  her.  She  had  found  her  father  to  lose  her  lover ,  and 
perhaps  the  paternal  instinct  in  her  was  not  as  strong  as  love.  At 
last  all  had  gone,  except  Anethe  and  Ivern.  The  countless  kisses  which 
she  imprintedUon  Paul's  pale  face  drove  the  iron  deep  into  Ivern's  soul. 
Wearied  at  last  she  fell  asleep  in  her  hiding  place.  When  she  awoke 
Anethe  was  asleep.  She  arose,  and  going  to  the  bed-side  caressed 
the  wounded  man's  hair,  then  stooped  and  touched  with  her  lips 
Anethe's  brow.  It  was  not  a  warm  kiss  of  affection,  it  was  more 
like  the  sunshine  kissing  the  frozen  bill,  or  the  humble  soldier  kissing 
the  wounded  commander,  or  the  gentle  dove  billing  an  injured  robin. 

Anethe  awoke  with  a  start.  "Where  am  I?"  she  exclaimed.  "And 
who  are  you  ?"  she  asked  as  she  noticed  Ivern. 

"I  am  just  myself,  that's  all,"  and  she  passed  out  on  the  streets 
once  more.  She  would  not  return  to  her  father.  The  pain  at  her 


170  NATHAN    THE   JEW. 

heart  was  too  hot.  The  love  of  a  father  is  efficient,  but  not  sufficient 
to  satisfy  the  feminine  nature.  In  her  heart  she  pitied  Anethe,  for 
if  Paul  was  true  to  her,  he  was  false  to  Anethe;  and  if  he  was  true 
to  Anethe,  he  was  false  to  ner  and  to  himself.  "Well  Paul  is  a  queer 
muddle  anyhow.  I'll  keep  out  of  his  way,  and  let  him  be  true  or 
false  as  he  wants  to  me,"  she  thought.  All  night  she  wandered  about, 
as  she  had  often  done  days  before.  The  Hebraic  words  glared  at  her  from 
every  lamp  post.  She  could  even  see  the  serpent,  like  letters  in  the 
heavens  above.  Then  she  would  draw  her  lipa  closely  together  to 
curse  Nathan  the  Jew;  but  a  little  whispered  prayer  for  mercy  would 
be  wafted  to  the  unknown  God.  After  three  days  of  sadness  and 
wandering  she  again  returned  to  her  anxious  father  at  No  5  Bartlett 
Place. 

Her  first  words  were  about  Paul.  "He  has  recovered,  so  as  to  be 
able  to  be  out,"  was  Mr.  Oswold'a  reply.  Then  he  kindly  censured 
her.  He  was  afraid  Ivern's  previous  life  and  habits  would  always 
cling  to  her.  A  flower  that  is  left  to  grow  in  the  shade,  never  attains 
its  full  beauty  and  sweetness.  He  was  very  kind  to  Ivern.  Not 
once  did  he  try  to  reform  her  ways.  He  would  win  her  love  first. 
And  great  was  his  joy,  as  each  day  he  saw  more  convincing  proof  of 
her  chastenesg,  and  that  Paul's  love  was  pure.  He  had  not  only 
found  the  flower  of  his  life,  but  the  p9rfume  remained  with  it  still. 

One  day  she  was  sitting  in  her  new  home.  Her  eyes  were  sadder 
than  ever,  and  her  luxuriant  hair  fell  in  ringlets  about  her  shoulders. 
She  gazed  wistfully  towards  the  sea,  and  the  cry  of  the  waves  seemed 
but  the  echo  to  her  lost  spirit.  Thus  she  was  sitting  when  Fag, 
dressed  in  a  new  suit,  clean  shirt,  polished  boots,  and  washed  and 
combed  until  one  would  hardly  recognize  the  boot-black  of  former 
days. 

"I've  been  looking  for  you"  exclaimed  Ivern. 

"And  I've  been  looking  for  you,  too,"  replied  Fag.  I've  something 
to  tell  you." 

"Come  in  where  papa  is,  unless  you  want  to  tell  me  alone." 

"Its  just  for  you,  and  no  one  else." 

"Well  then,  tell  me  here.     No  one  will  hear  you." 

"I'd  rather  tell  it  in  the  dark,  in  some  lonesome  place." 

"I  would  like  to  know  what  it  is,"  replied  Ivern. 


NATHAN   THE   JEW.  171 

"Am  I  big  enough  to  get  married  ?"  asked  Fag. 

'Yes,  I  should  tbink  PO,"  phe  replied. 

'Are  you?" 

'I  hardly  know." 

'I'm  your  best  friend,  ain't  I?" 

Tes." 

'I  have  fought,  begged,  and  stole  for  you.     Hain't  I  ?" 

'You  have  done  nobly.  I  have  EO  true  friend  but  you  in  the 
world." 

'You  forget  Paul." 

'No  I  don't." 

'That  makes  me  feel  good  here  \"  exclaimed  Fag,  as  he  placed  his 
hand  on  his  breast. 

"You  are  a  darling  friend,"  said  Ivern  as  she  gave  him  a  coquet- 
tish glance. 

"Let's  get  married,*'  exclaimed  Fag,  and  throwing  his  arms  about 
her,  he  kissed  her  hands,  face,  dress,  hair,  and  touched  her  with  his 
hands  as  gently  as  a  child. 

Ivern  did  not  try  to  restrain  him,  neither  did  she  smile.  She  stooped 
and  kissed  his  forehead. 

"I  wish  it  was  night,  I  am  ashamed  of  myself,"  and  he  hid  his 
face. 

UI  did  not  know  that  you  ever  thought  of  love,"  she  said. 

"Let's  get  married?"  he  implored. 

Ivern  was  puzzled .  Had  she  really  aroused  a  love  passion  in  Fag. 
A  crippled,  ugly,  little  fellow  who  had  always  declared  he  would  die 
for  her.  She  owed  her  life  to  him,  yet  Paul  called  her  to  a  higher 
life  while  Fag,  with  a  kind  of  imbecile  love,  wooed  her  to  the  old. 
With  pitying  tones  she  eaid:  "Fag  I  love  Paul,  you  must  go  away. 
Come  back  after  awhile  and  I  will  give  you  an  answer,"  and  she 
pushed  him  aside . 

He  coiled  at  her  feet  and  wept  like  a  girl.  Then  with  a  masterful 
sweep  of  his  hand  he  brushed  away  the  tears  and  said  half  to  him- 
self :  ''Fag's  a  man,  love  makes  me  little,  it  will  make  me  big,  I'll  die 
for  you." 

He  was  gone,  Ivern  would  have  called  him  back  to  weep  with  him, 
but  she  wept  alone. 


172  NATHAN   THE   JEW. 

Paul  came  to  her  in  the  evening  with  his  head  still  bandaged. 
She  kissed  passionately  the  white  cloth.  Paul  smiled  at  her  warmth. 
He  did  not  know  that  the  bandage  covered  her  own  flesh. 

"The  days  of  trial   are  over,"  said  Paul. 

"Not  as  long  as  Nathan  lives.  I  will  never,  never  be  happy  until 
he  is  dead." 

"When  you  are  my  wife  I  will  protect  you*  He  will  not  dare  in- 
sult you  then." 

"When  I  am  your  wife?  I  know  not  what  that  means.  It's  in 
me  and  no  one  ever  teached  it  to  me  that  the  one  you  are  engaged  to 
is  your  wife." 

"What  do  you  mean?"  he  asked 

"I  mean  that  you  have  another  lover.  I  heard  her  say  so.  I  saw 
her  crying  at  your  side.  It  is  well.  She  is  for  you.  I  am  not  fit, 
even  papa  says  that  good  people  will  despise  me  if  I  do  not  do  like 
them." 

"But  it  is  you  I  want  my  friendless  girl,"  replied  Paul. 

"You  are  engaged  to"a  very  rich  and,  I  know,  a  very  beautiful 
Christian  lady,  while  I  am  only  a  Jewish  girl  and  a  bad  one  too." 

"You  must  marry  me  though." 

No,"  she  said  blushing,  but  with  great  decision,  "that  would  not 
do.  Fag  is  better  suited  to  me  than  you  with  your  wealth  and  friends. 
And  Fag  loves  me  more  than  you  do,"  she  said  as  she  passed  nearer 
to  him. 

"I  have  a  rival  then?"  he  asked. 

Yes,  Fag  asked  me  to  marry  him  this  morning." 

"And  you  consented?" 

"No,  until  Nathan  is  dead  and  the  curse  removed  I  will  be  only 
Ivern." 

"Then  you  will  marry  Fag?" 

"No,  I  lore  you." 

A.S  she  spoke  they  glanced  at  the  window  and  saw  thejface  of  Fag. 
She  was  frightened  for  it  had  a  wild  fierce  look.  She  and  Paul 
watched  for  the  face  again  which  never  appeared,  but  a  small  wiry 
form  moved  down  towards  the  waterfront.  On  and  on,  with  a  set 
face  and  determined  step,  the  figure  movtcl  until  the  roaring  of  the 
waters  sounded  lone  and  dismal. 


NATHAN    THE   JEW.  173 

"She'll  marry  him,"  said  Fag  as  he  contemplated  the  sea  wooing 
him  nearer  and  nearer  its  damp  embrace. 

He  listened  to  the  moaning  sea  and  wailed  in  harmony  with  its 
tone.  Life  had  been  a  series  of  failures  to  the  poor,  forsaken  and 
unloved  boy. 

Now  he  stood  weeping  and  irresolute,  by  the  border  of  the 
suburbs  of  eternity.  Death  would  give  him  unconsciousness — a 
long,  quiet  sleep,  beginning  with  time  and  ending  in  the  fortress  of 
futurity.  There  was  something  fascinating  about  death  to  him.  A 
quiet  rest  with  no  horrible  dreams,  a  delicious  sleep  to  hours  of 
anxiety  and  pain. 

Fag's  mind  did  not  penetrate  the  beyond,  though  his  dreams  of  a 
fairer  land  were  consciously  sweet,  and  fascinating.  He  stood  upon 
the  shore  wailing  to  cast  himself  into  the  sea,  but  unconsciousness 
came  to  him  above  the  deep,  and  tired  and  exhausted  with  the 
excitement  of  the  day;  he  curled  himself  in  a  knot  and  rested.  He 
slept  all  night. 

The  morning  sun  never  shone  on  a  more  peaceful  face,  it  lighted 
up  his  irregular  features,  and  played  and  sported  around  the  angular 
frame,  chasing  its  own  shadow  away  from  his  back,  and  from  under 
his  well-worn  hat. 

The  sunshine  w  irmed  the  blood  in  his  veins  and  gave  to  his 
thoughts  a  more  gentle  tone.  He  dreamed  of  the  angels  at  the  bot- 
tom of  the  sea,  and  that  they  were  kind  to  him,  Yes,  out  of  the 
deep  came  consolation.  He  did  not  contemplate  foul  monsters 
feeding  upon  his  flesh;  but  that  the  fishes  had  turned  into  angels, 
and  all  the  inhabitants  of  the  sea  played  with  his  hair  and  caressed 
him  with  pale  white  hands.  While  thus  dreaming  a  hand  was 
placed  gently  on  his  face,  flushed  with  the  warm  light  of  the 
sun. 

Fag    raised  his    arm    and  with    a    slow  motion  of    his  hand 
muttered. 

"Go  away,  angel,  don't  bother  me." 

Again  the  same  hand  was  laid  upon  his  face,  and  Fag's  tone  was 
loud  and  clear  when  he  said: 

"Angel,  don't  touch  me." 

Then  the  figure  bending  over  him  drew  back,  and  watched  the 


174  NATHAN   THE   J1\V. 

tired  boy.  Her  face  was  wreathed  in  smiles,  and  her  eyes  sparkled 
as  they  always  did  under  intense  joy. 

She  again  went  to  Fag,  lifted  up  his  head  and  shook  him,  not 
roughly,  but  to  awake  him. 

"Go  away,  devil,"  he  said  angrily. 

Then  he  put  out  his  hand  and  felt  her  face,  and  said: 

"No,  'taint  no  devil;  you're  an  angel,"  and  then  opened  wide  his 
drooping  eyelids,  and  saw  Ivern  stooping  over  him. 

"Why,  Fag,  what's  the  matter?"  she  asked. 

"I  thought  an  angel  touched  me.  It  was  only  you,  and  I  dunno 
whether  it  was  an  angel  or  devil.  You  are  both." 

"Why,  no,  Fag,  I  am  your  friend." 

"Yes,  but  you're  Paul's  girl." 

"Anethe  is  Paul's  girl,"  Ivern  replied. 

"Then,  if  I  were  you,  I  wouldn't  kiss  him,"  and  Fag  arose  from 
his  cramped  posture,  and  looked  rather  disdainful  upon  Ivern. 

"Why  did  you  come  here?"  he  asked. 

"To  see  you." 

"But  I  do  not  want  to  see  you  any  more.  Don't  you  know  I  love 
you  and  can't  be  your  friend  now.  I  hate  you.  If  you  marry 
Paul,  and  he  dies,  like  old  Graham  did, then  I'll  be  your  friend  again, 
but  I  ain't  a-goin'  to  live  long,  so  you  see  what's  the  use  of  talking. 
But  since  you  mentioned  old  Nathan,  the  mean  Jew,  I'll  be  reveaged 
on  him  right  away,  now.  You  go  to  Paul,  you  don't  care  for  me 
nohow."  Fag  stopped  out  of  breath,  he  had  spoken  excitedly.  Love 
was  not  a  lofty  passion  with  the  friendless  boy,  but  it  was  sincere,  it 
made  him  weep,  it  was  true,  it  was  unselfish,  and  unselfish  love  is 
perfected  passion.  Fag  did  not  stop,  like  the  young  man,  any  young 
man,  and  estimate  the  intelligence,  the  usefulness  and  beauty  of 
Ivern.  He  just  loved  her  without  asking  the  reason  why.  He  did 
not  dream  even  of  the  consummation  of  his  love. 

Ivern  was  pleased  by  the  passion  of  this  forlorn  boy,  and  she  was 
shy  with  him  as  she  was  with  Paul. 

"I  haven' t'married  Paul  yet,"  she  responded  in  reply  to  all  he  said. 

"Well,  I  don't  care,  you  go  up  that  way,  and  I  will  go  up  this 
way,"  and  he  started  away  in  an  opposite  direction  from  that  which 
he  had  pointed  out  for  her  to  go. 


NATHAN   THE   JEW.  175 

As  he  started  up  Pacific  street  a  thought  came  to  him  forcibly, 
suddenly,  terribly.  "I'll  kill  the  Jew  then  drown  myself.  She  said 
she  would  never  be  happy  until  Nathan  was  dead." 

He  paused  a  moment,  not  irresolute,  but  to  meditate.  You  know 
how  natural  it  is  to  study  a  project,  or  with  your  eye  to  measure  a 
distance  before  leaping.  Human  nature  is  very  subtle  and  very  oddt 
Once  we  met  two  men  who  were  exactly  alike  in  expression, 
movement,  style  and  manners — they  were  both  dead.  Human  na- 
ture is  eccentric.  Once  we  knew  a  man  who  died  for  love — his  death 
was  happy.  Human  nature  is  true  to  noble  impulse,  if  the  sympa- 
thetic chord  is  touched.  We  have  never  lived  among  a  people  nor 
traveled  with  a  company  where  we  did  not  find  the  bird  in  the 
soul. 

Even  Fag  with  murder  in  his  mind  and  love  in  his  heart  was  not  bad. 
He  was  noble .  There  was  something  grand  in  his  desire  to  kill  Nathan, 
the  Jew.  He  had  no  personal  spite  against  him,  he  did  not  crave  ven- 
geance for  himself,  but  for  others.  With  the  intent  of  killing  Nathan 
for  Ivern,  and  then  committing  suicide,  he  approached  the  place  of 
Nathan,  hedged  in  between  two  saloons. 

He  did  not  tremble,  though  his  face  became  somewhat  repulsive^ind 
his  eyes  flashed  as  he  asked  Nathan  for  a  fine,  ivory-handled  dirk, 
thai:  lay  with  its  glittering  blade  under  the  glass  case. 

Nathan   gave    Fag   the  knife.     In  a  moment  all  was  over.  jFag's  . 
hands  were  covered  with  blood.     He  would  never  again  be  guiltless, 
never  !  A  life  was  ruined.     Fag  was  a  criminal.    The  young  life  was 
blotted. 

"Now  quit  your  meanness,"  he  said.  "Have  you  forgotten  Ivern  ? 
Have  you  forgotten  Paul  ?  Have  you  forgotten  one-half  the  crimes 
you  have  committed  ?  I  am  glad  you  will  forget  them  now.  I  killed 
you  for  her  sake,  I  knew  I  could  do  it.  You  see  now  that  it  don't 
pay  to  be  low  and  mean .  Hurry  up  and  die  before  some  one  comes. 
I  am  going  to  leave  you  now,  for  I  am  going  to  die  too,  but  it  won't 
hurt  me."  Then  as  if  in  remorse,  he  stooped  down,  and  raised  the 
Jew's  head  and  according  to  an  old  custom,  he  took  from  his  pocket 
two  coins  and  placed  them  upon  the  glassy  eyes.  Nathan's  arm 
twitched  and  he  seemed  to  make  an  attempt  to  raise  his  arm.  Fag 
muttered,  "Well,  he's  trying  to  steal  the  bits  off  his  eyes,"  and  he 


176  NATHAN   THE    JEW. 

quickly  replaced  them  in  his  pocket  and  hurridly  left  the  store.  He 
went  to  No.  5  Bartlett  Place  and  again  met  Ivern  at  the  door. 

"I'll  never  see  you  again,  never,  Ivern.  I  am  going  away.  I 
wonder  if  the  bottom  of  the  sea  is  cold,  and  if  angels  will  see  me 
there.  I  often  dream  of  angels,  and  lam  going  to  die. 

"Hush,  Fag,  you  frighten  me.  You  must  not  talk  wild  like  that, 
it  hurts  me." 

"It  is  not  the  dying  that  hurts  me.  It  is  the  leavin'  you,"  re- 
plied Fag. 

"No,  I  am  gone,  for  dead  is  dead,  and  gone  is  gone.  If  Paul 
marries  Anethe,  then  come  to  me,  won't  you  ?" 

"I  promise  you  I  will,"  replied  Ivern. 

"Tell  Mr.  Oswald,  when  I  am  gone,  that  Nathan  the  Jew,  wants 
to  see  him.  And  Ivern,  I  have  fixed  it  all  right  so  that  he  won't 
trouble  you  any  more." 

"How  can  I  ever  repay  you,  Fag,  for  all  the  kind  things  you 
have  done  for  me  ?" 

"By  kissing  me  good-bye/'  he  replied. 

"I  will  kiss  you  if  you  stop,  and  don't  talk  in  such  a  dreamy, 
sad  tone,  just  like  something  would  happen  to  you."  Then  she 
stooped  and  kissed  him, 

"Kiss  me  good-bye  again,  Ivern,  it  is  like, — like  nothing  I  ever 
had  before." 

We  will  not  blame  her  for  taking  the  almost  doomed  boy  in  her 
arms  and  kissing  him  again  and  again. 

Like  a  frightened  deer  he  withdrew  from  her  embrace  and  started 
away.  When  he  reached  the  foot  of  the  stairs,  ready  to  enter  the 
street,  he  turned  and  saw  Ivern  with  tears  in  her  eyes  still  watching 
him;  he  went  back  and  stood  on  the  step  below  her.  "Give  me  the 
last  kiss  ?"  he  asked. 

"I  will  she  said,  "and  kissed  him  again. 

It  was  the  last  kiss  he  ever  received .  No  mother  gave  his  cold 
lips  a  warmer  caress.  Born  of  a  low  woman,  of  a  father  who  added 
to  the  list  of  his  crimes  by  becoming  the  father  of  Fag.  Do  you 
not  pity  the  boy  whose  morbid  sentiment  drove  him  out  of  an  un- 
friendly world. 

He  hurried   away.     The   thought  that  an  officer  was  after  him, 


NATHAN   THE   JEW.  177 

made  him  double  his  speed.  He  reached  the  water's  edge,  and 
stood  upon  the  pier.  The  sea  breeze  tossed  his  hair  about  his  pale, 
agitated  face.  He  held  his  arms  up  towards  the  sea-gulls  as  if  be- 
seeching them  to  bear  his  soul  away  upon  their  wings.  Then  he 
looked  upon  the  sea;  it  wooed  him  to  its  depths;  it  seemed  a  living, 
breathing  thing;  the  waves  were  laughter,  and  the  lapping  waters 
were  caresses !  The  whole  world  loomed  up  behind  him  as  a  colos- 
sal stiffining  corpse,  with  a  face  of  night.  A  glance  backward. 
A  leap  forward.  All  was  over.  His  body  sank  beneath,  and  his 
spirit  rose  abore  the  waves. 

There  is  still  more  to  tell.  The  winter- breath  of  death  has  not 
placed  upon  all  its  victims  the  ashy  hue. 

The  papers  told  the  sensational  tale  of  murder  and  suicide.  The  tear- 
less relatives  remained  at  home,  and  Ivern  watched  the  sea,  with  her 
face  against  the  pane,  hoping  that  the  dead  would  come  back .  The 
spirit  from  the  air  answered,  "Never!  Never!" 

CHAPTER  IV. 

Paul,  trembling  and  excited,  stood  once  more  in  the  presence  of 
Anethe.  She  had  been  told  the  whole  story  of  his  love  for  Ivern, 
There  was  no  anger,  but  there  was  a  trace  of  pain  upon  her  face  as 
she  said:  "Here  I  gave  you  my  wounded  heart.  Here  I  pronounce 
our  separation .  Go !  but  not  in  anger.  Go !  from  the  one  who  lovei 
you  to  the  one  you  love.  Not  go,  you  say?  You  must.  A  woman 
knows  a  man's  heart.  Perhaps,  you  will  tire  of  the  new  love  as  you 
did  of  me.  If  you  do,  come  back.  Know  that  love  alone  forces 
from  me  such  an  invitation.  Not  a  word .  Go!" 

Such  a  look !  The  very  richness  of  love  arose  to  her  face,  and  hal- 
lowed it  as  she  spoke  the  last  word.  He  went  reluctant,  but  satis- 
fied, and  Anethe' s  perene,  like  Patience,  smiling  at  grief,  lived  on. 

For  Ivern  and  Paul  there  followed  days  and  days  of  pleasure. 
Sometimes  a  jealous  pang  would  drive  its  cruel  point  through  her 
heart,  and  then  she  would  complain;  "Poor,  dear  Fag,  he  loved  me. 
He  died  for  me.  Some  day,  Paul,  I  will  drown  my  love  for  you 
like  Fag  who  drowned  his  for  me.  Only  for  papa's  sake  I'll  keep 
the  rest  of  me  dry." 


178  NATHAN    THE   JEW. 

Paul  would  strongly  advocate  his  love.  He  would  protest  until 
falling  tears  hung  on  his  eyelids.  At  last  there  was  peace  between 
them,  and  mutual  love  brought  its  own  happiness.  Perhaps,  some- 
where in  the  book  of  life,  it  is  recorded  that  they  were  united. 

When  the  winter  and  summer  had  passed ,  and  the  grasses  were 
springing  up,  Ivern  grew  sad  again.  The  night  frosts  of  life  were 
with  her.  She  and  Paul  were  sitting  quietly  in  the  dark,  mutually 
occupied  in  divining  each  other's  thoughts,  and  lost,  half  in  their 
hearts,  and  half  in  the  sublime  night.  Ivern  placed  her  hand  trem- 
ulously upon  his.  Then,  blushing  and  hiding  her  face,  with  a  voice 
low  and  musical,  tbrillingly  painful,  she  talked,  not  once  turning  her 
face  towards  him : 

"There  is  happiness  coming  to  us,  Paul,  under  the  shadow  of  a 
cloud.  You  wanted  to  marry  me,  but  I  wanted  you  to  wait  until  I 
had  given  up  all  my  old  habits.  Then  I  thought  our  love  married  us 
just  as  welL  Now,  Paul" — he  tried  to  see  her  face — "No,  do  not 
look  at  me,"  and  she  placed  her  bands  over  his  eyes.  "Last  night 
I  dreamed  that  a  little  bird,  entangled  in  the  folds  of  a  cloud,  broke 
away  and  flew  to  me,  bringing  me  token  after  token.  When  it  flew 
away  for  the  last  time,  it  sang  that  it  would  bring  me  a  token  of 
your  love.  Then  I  became  deathly  sick,  and  the  bird  returned  with 
the  token,  a  little  child,  and  it  lead  me  from  you  to  the  spirit  world. 
Oh,  Paul,  you  know,  it  was  not  all  a  dream!"  Her  face  was 
confused  with  a  heavenly  mildness,  for  Paul  understood.  My  words 
cannot  add  to  tbe  picture  of  the  one  who  was  bird-like  in  her  love, 
nor  express  the  mental  anguish  of  the  other. 

Again  Paul  pleaded  that  she  would  allow  him  to  have  the  marriage 
solemnized,  but  the  strong-willed  girl  would  not  listen  to  him  or  her 
father.  A  strange  presentiment  had  taken  possession  of  her.  She 
believed  that  she  would  soon  follow  Fag.  Mr.  Oswald  did  not  offer 
her  a  word  of  reproach.  His  hopes  for  her  happiness  re- 
mained. She  was  all  that  he  had  in  the  world.  The  records  of 
Nathan,  the  Jew,  proved  conclusively  that  Lea,  his  wife,  had  died 
many  years  ago.  Ivern's  disgrace  was  not  shame.  The  sorrow 
stricken  father  loved  his  wayward  child.  All  that  he  asked  of 
Paul  was:  "You  are  not  married  to  her,  are  you?  He  answered: 


NATHAN    THE    JEW.  179 

"There  is  no  record  of  our  marriage  on  earth  but  there  is  in 
heaven." 

Ivern  seldom  left  her  room.  All  day  long,  many  weeks  she 
would  watch  the  sea.  At  last  she  would  not  see  Paul  except  when 
the  room  was  darkened.  Then  one  night  she  aaked  him  to  say  good- 
bye until  she  would  send  for  him.  She  lived  now  in  a  world  of 
love  within  the  rind  of  the  real  world.  "Paul,"  she  said, 
"I  took  you  from  Anethe.  Sometime  when  I  am  gone 
return  to  her.  Do  not  mourn  for  me.  Do  like  me, 
when  Fag  died  I  gave  you  atl  of  my  love,  and  I  think  for 
the  last  brief  year  we  have  tasted  all  there  is  of  love.  It  is  wrong 
for  me  to  dread  the  future,  but  let  us  part  to-night  as  though  we 
should  never  meet  again.  A  little  child  will  lead  me  from  you  to  the 
spirit  world." 

Then  in  the  silent  night  with  no  candle  to  lift  the  veil  of  their  hap- 
piness, with  their  souls  altogether  lost  in  each  other  they  parted. 

It  was  a  night  of  mortal  agony  for  Ivern.  In  the  morning  the 
sharp,  physical  pain  was  over.  The  mother  and  babs  lay  side  by 

side — dead. 

*  *  *  *  *  *  * 

Paul  loitered  about  the  grave  of  Ivern  for  a  year,  fatigued,  not 
freshened  by  tears.  Alas!  that  death  should  so  sully  the  blossoms  of 
life.  "Ivern!  Ivern!"  he  cried,  "lead  me  to  you."  Then  he  tottered 
away  from  the  grave,  where  knelt  the  father  of  the  buried  one,  to  re- 
turn to  the  living.  From  death  he  turned  to  life.  The  words  which 
Fag  often  used  seemed  written  above  him  across  the  sky:  "Dead  is 
dead;  gone  is  gone."  Then,  as  he  approached  the  home  of  Anethe, 
it  seemed  as  though  he  heard  her  singing:  "Dead  is  dead."  "Life 
is  life.  Come!  Come!"  He  paused  as  he  neared  the  house. 

"Not  yet,  not  yet,"  he  muttered  and  passed  on.  Another  six 
months  passed.  Again  he  approached  the  home  of  Anethe,  but  the 
shadow  of  the  dead  crossed  his  path,  and  he  tottered  away.  Winter 
had  come,  and  he  was  standing  once  more  in  the  luxurious  parlor 
waiting  for  Anethe. 

"Do  you  welcome  me  back  ?"  he  asked,  as  she  came  very  near  to 
him.  Her  love  and  sorrow  prevented  her  from  answering. 

"Anethe,  bid  me  stay  with  you  !" 


180 


NATHAN    THE   JEW. 


"I  have  lost  and  found  you  again  !"  she  replied. 

"O  rapture  !  O  God  !  Am  I  etill  loved  by  one  so  peerless  as  you 
Is  there  no  shadow  between  us  ?" 

"There  is  sunlight  from  the  grave,"  she  answered. 

"Yes,  and  the  light  is  eternal.     Our  happiness  is  complete.     The 
end  is  the  beginning  of  our  eternity  of  love." 

HARR  WAGNER. 


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